


The Hour of Wolves

by Lexwingh



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: ADWD spoilers, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Drama, Eventual Romance, Explicit Language, F/M, Fantasy, Future Fic, Post - A Dance With Dragons, Post - A Feast for Crows, R plus L equals J, Romance, Sexual Content, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-29 16:49:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8497807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexwingh/pseuds/Lexwingh
Summary: Soon comes the cold, and the night that never ends, warned the red priestess and, for once, she was not mistaken. At the Wall, an army of men fights ice with fire while the struggle for the Iron Throne continues with old and new players alike.  Across the Narrow Sea, Daenerys Targaryen becomes determined to go home, leaving behind a trail of destruction in her wake. Amidst it all, Arya Stark returns to Westeros teaming up with the most unexpected company yet, becoming a participant in a very different meeting of ice and fire.The realm will soon discover House Stark and Targaryen are not as dead as everyone once thought and, more importantly, that the darkest hour is upon them.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> The story picks up right after events in A Feast for Crows and A Dance with Dragons so for anyone who has not read the novels, SPOILERS abound. I will try to keep it as true to the books as possible in style and content which also means the story is rated M.
> 
> Anyway, I've been wanting to write this since reading ADWD when it first came out. It was supposed to focus mostly on Arya but has since grown a little in scope. The initial premise has been rewritten quite a few times – so much that the result is very different from what I originally planned, which would have required tinkering with the canon timeline. Instead, I might upload a different and lighter story using the discarded beginning.
> 
> This chapter is not betaed so I apologize in advance for any errors! Constructive criticism is much appreciated so please feel free to point out any mistakes and/or thoughts on the story!

**PROLOGUE**

(River Road, mid 300 AL)

Two days past the Golden Tooth on the River Road and Courin Tascer was, once again, glad for the day's end when all four hundred men along with their charge halted to set up camp for the night. It was hard to believe the days were supposed to be getting shorter for today had seemed like yet another overly long and weary day of riding so he was grateful for the night's rest.

In truth, he had little to complain about seeing as they were not traveling at a hard pace – much to Ser Forley Prester's chagrin. The matter was entirely out of their hands in large part due to the small wheelhouse and many wagons to pull but most especially because of the snow. Aye, the snow and the very large party made it difficult for them to cover as much as terrain as their commander expected when they first began their journey from Riverrun to Casterly Rock; not that Ser Forley didn't try pushing them as hard as possible anyway.

Tiresome as he was, Courin still respected the man.

Fumbling with his sleeves while checking his numerous balms and ointments, Courin almost walked right into someone. Looking up startled, he held back a groan when he recognized Sybell Spicer, or rather, Lady Sybell Westerling. She eyed him icily and sniffed past him without a word, damnable woman as she was.

Courin found her to be the most tiresome out of everyone else in their group, including that idiot Sabas who seemed intent on plaguing him with new injuries and complaints every other day. The man's aches were getting increasingly ridiculous and Courin was thoroughly convinced he nursed an unhealthy addiction to milk of the poppy. He'd been turning Sabas away but the damned man was frighteningly persistent. He had half a mind to slip him something nasty instead and see if he learned his lesson; as if Courin didn't have enough on his plate already with the number of injured traveling in these conditions.

The grand escort for Edmure Tully and the Westerlings encountered some trouble before reaching the Golden Tooth. Those at the back edge of the column were attacked a couple of times. They had all been small sneak attacks but a handful of men were lost while near twice as many had been wounded and several of their supply wagons also suffered some form damage. Ser Forley believed the attackers had not been thieves at all but members of that infamous group of traitor outlaws running loose across the Riverlands; not surprising considering he expected a rescue attempt at every turn of the road. Courin couldn't deny the possibility but times were hard and winter was coming so he wouldn't discard them being simple thieves either, the gods knew there was a growing number of those as of late.

In any case, Courin's duties were to care for the wounded so he hardly cared who had attacked them or why as long as he himself didn't receive an arrow through his chest.

Courin Tascer had never been an especially athletic man or in any way suited for the life of a soldier. In fact, back home most would say he did not seem to be suited for anything at all; certainly not anything that demanded any kind of effort. But physical labor was the worst as far as Courin was concerned and that was one of the reasons he once wanted to become a maester. That, and being smart. Courin thought highly of himself in that regard and nobody who knew him could deny it. So as a young lad, Courin was sent to study at the Citadel. He always believed he might enjoy being a maester but even his studies eventually proved too tiresome so he left after a few years. He _did_ manage to forge a few links though not enough to earn the title of maester.

His father had been extremely cross when he returned home. ' _Cross' was a mild way of putting it,_ thought Courin. _No, Father had been furious._ But, as always, Courin simply shrugged it off and, as always, his father's steaming anger eventually cooled down. Growing up, that dull routine had been a regular occurrence in their household. Nowadays he remembered those times with something akin to fond amusement; Courin could still recall the sound of his sweet mother's voice trying to placate his father. He had a happy childhood and was well loved by both parents, his father only had greater difficulty understanding his younger son though Courin was self-aware enough not to fault or resent him for it. Whatever the man said or did, it was because he cared for his family.

Father was a landed knight sworn to House Kenning of Kayce in the Westerlands and Courin was the younger of his two sons. Most people would say he was also the most difficult. Not in a mischievous way but because he was what people would describe as a 'good-for-nothing'. His reputation didn't bother Courin in the least. He knew he was good at a great many things; numbers, languages, history, herbs, healing, human and animal anatomy to name a few. However, while other men of similar status vied for honor and glory Courin had only ever wanted an easy life avoiding anything he considered even remotely bothersome. He hardly saw the crime in that.

His brother, on the other hand, was a knight like Father and would someday inherit their keep, as was his right. Arvin was a righteous man, honest and kind, and Courin loved him for it. His brother was one of the very few who humored and accepted him entirely. Father and Arvin had both ridden out when their liege lord called for his knights and bannermen. At the time, Father insisted Courin also make himself useful and thus the reason he found himself presently serving, not as a soldier, but instead tending to the wounded. There was _always_ use for men like him in wars, men who knew of healing. And so, Courin Tascer, barely past twenty-five years of age and not-quite-a-Maester, found himself a safe position away from the front lines during the War of the Five Kings.

After sidestepping Lady Westerling and muttering his apologies, Courin made his rounds knowing it was high time he saw his patients. Later, when night fully descended and the entire camp was secured, he stopped by the fires crowded with men not on watch duty who gathered 'round laughing at bawdy tales. Spotting a few familiar faces, Courin sat between Larris Hill and Jaesse Himan. The former a by-blow of one of the sons of a cadet branch of House Sarsfield who'd been tasked to the escort because he knew the terrain well. The lad was also fine archer and among those taking turns guarding Edmure Tully and Jeyne Westerling. Gossip and speculation abound – most of it astonishingly on the mark – but Courin was probably among the few who knew on good authority the exact nature of the orders those guards had received. When he asked about it, young Larris had confided he wasn't too keen on them, especially not where the girl was concerned. Courin could hardly blame him; no decent man would welcome an order to lose an arrow on a defenseless girl.

"Cour!" Jaesse exclaimed, clapping him on the back happily as he sat down. "How are your wounded faring?"

"Well enough," he replied truthfully. Only one of the men seemed not to be healing as expected but Courin was already taking precautions against infection.

Jaesse nodded. "Don't think you'll have much to occupy yourself with from here on. We shall be safer now we're past the Golden Tooth. Everyone seems to think so."

"You all seem convinced our only danger are the possible rescue attempts on Lord Tully and the Young Wolf's widow."

"Well, everyone knows the Blackfish escaped…" Jaesse shrugged. "That man will surely come for his nephew don't you think? Even Jaime Lannister thinks so; why else would he arrange such a large escort for him?"

"I know," Courin said. "But what about road thieves and brigands? Surely there are just as many of them hidden in these mountains as anywhere else in this rotting kingdom."

Jaesse shrugged yet again. It was a habit of his. "No doubt they shall think twice before attacking such a large group."

This time Courin was the one to shrug. He hardly had the will to argue his point and it mattered little to him what anyone thought about it. "Tell that to the men I've been tending to," was his final comment on the matter.

Jaesse shook his head with an amused smile. He was a golden-haired fellow, good-natured and quick to smile - even in this weather. He was of an age with Courin while Larris Hill was a few years younger, eighteen or nineteen at the most.

Courin turned to Larris when the lad unexpectedly hooted loudly beside him. The other men sharing their fire followed suit, calling out loudly at someone. It wasn't until he saw Whitesmile Wat that Courin realized they'd been calling out for songs.

The singer stopped with a laugh and seated himself amongst them.

Courin was not entirely surprised to see Whitesmile Wat. He usually spent most nights either singing for Ser Forley and the other higher ranking knights or the Westerlings in their tents but this was far from the first time he joined the men in their fires.

Tonight, he began with "Bessa the Barmaid," followed by "The Bear and the Maiden Fair" and the bawdy "Her Little Flower" after that. It wasn't until after they had their measly meal and most men retired for the night that a young squire came to him saying Ser Forley was asking for him. Courin sighed and stood up reluctantly, he'd been just about ready to leave himself and get some sleep. Even Wat had already gone to bed after singing "The Maids that Bloom in Spring."

Walking at a slow pace, Courin blinked in surprise when he discovered Lord Gawen Westerling with their bald and brown-bearded commander. Lord Westerling often dined with Ser Forley but he did not expect to see the head of House Westerling still there at this late hour. Courin didn't dislike the man, he seemed to be a kind, pleasant sort of person. If anything, Courin felt sorry for him and his situation.

"You called for me, Ser Forley?" Courin asked after clearing his throat.

"Tascer," the older man acknowledged. "Indeed I have. Lord Westerling just mentioned one of his daughters is taken ill… Now, he insists his wife is more than capable of handling it but I believe you should look at the girl to be safe."

Courin felt as if he'd swallowed something sour though he tried his best to keep his feelings from showing on his face.

Sybell Spicer would most certainly not welcome his opinion or any form of meddling. Courin was in no mood to argue with that woman and even sniffed at the notion despite himself. He was loathed to admit it but the Lady of the Crag knew her herbs and potions well, no doubt about that. Nevertheless, her concoctions were quack medicine compared to the proper knowledge he acquired at the Citadel. He made it his mission in life to avoid bothersome people, and Lady Westerling qualified as one with flying colors; only Father had ever managed to be so exhausting.

Their enmity could be traced to merely a few nights ago – right before arriving into the Westerlands – when her young son developed a very bad rash on his hands. The two argued extensively over the proper cause and cure so it stung deeply when she was proven right. The smug knowing glint in her eyes had been unbearable. Courin cared little for pride but his innate understanding of healing and the human anatomy had always been his two strongest talents, even at the Citadel he had excelled above his peers in that area.

"There is really no need –"

"Nonsense, Gawen. You and your family are in our care so I feel it is my duty to have our healer see to your daughter."

Lord Westerling sighed in resignation before motioning for him to follow. Courin had a feeling the man knew his wife would not be happy. He shadowed the man silently. Only one fire remained with no more than a handful of men still sitting and talking quietly amongst themselves, the camp had grown otherwise silent and dark with the moon up high yet barely visible through the mist. Courin once again cursed not having gone to bed earlier… now that he faced the probability of not getting any sleep tonight he mourned the precious few minutes he might have had otherwise.

"A fever took her last night and, I think, might have worsened after traveling all day," Lord Westerling murmured.

Courin nodded firmly but kept following silently, this time with more concern for the girl.

Passing by Edmure Tully's tent, Courin nodded to the two guards at the entrance. They were both archers. Dalton, he knew somewhat; a rather boring brown-haired fellow with a stubby nose he'd spoken to on a few occasions. The other was a skinny red-haired young man; Courin wasn't sure but thought his name was Angill or Anguy… something along those lines. It didn't take long for them to reach the Westerlings' tents after that. Both Lord Tully's and Lord Westerling's tents were not far apart and none too far from Ser Forley's tent either. To keep an eye on things surely.

Once outside their destination, Courin braced himself for what was to come. Following Lord Westerling, he saw the other man eyeing the guards posted around this tent none too happily.

Stepping inside, Courin took a measured look around. The youngest daughter was lying down with her mother and sister, the Young Wolf's widow, sitting by her and pressing cold compresses to her skin. The boy was nowhere to be seen.

"Well, my Lord, I see once again my opinions are of little worth to you," Lady Westerling said to her husband in a disgruntled tone as she stood up. "Or have you perhaps come in hopes of learning something, Tascer?" This time she looked at him directly.

Courin cleared his throat, not taking the bait. "Ser Forley insisted upon my services here," he said while briefly glancing back towards Lord Westerling who turned and took his leave from them.

She looked almost amused at his answer. "While we are grateful, they are unnecessary."

He peered at her but his annoyance faded, if only a little, when he realized that behind the sneer there was a hint of worry in her eyes.

Rather than taking that as the dismissal she obviously intended it to be, Courin only nodded in acknowledgment of her words but made no motion to leave. One might almost think he stayed solely to irk the woman but that would require too much effort on his part, something Courin Tascer was prone to avoid at all cost. Ser Forley Prester expected him to stay - the gods help him if he left and something happened to the girl, however unlikely. He was in no mood to be admonished gratuitously.

Courin shuffled closer to his new patient industriously and became alarmed when he felt her burning skin. The girl was sweating profusely; unconscious but obviously in pain. He proceeded in checking her temperature, pulse, eye color and all the usual. Lady Westerling hovered over them watching his every move like a hawk. She made no further vocal protests, however. The sister made room for him immediately but did not let go of the younger's clammy hand.

"Has the fever worsened from last night?" he asked.

Lady Westerling frowned and appeared about to retort but her eldest was quicker. "Eleyna woke up much better this morning and seemed recovered but the day's journey must have worn her out… she seemed to become increasingly weary with each passing hour."

Courin nodded and motioned for her to continue.

The girl bit her lip. "I fear her fever is indeed much worse tonight…"

"She looks to be a strong, healthy girl. I expect she might have recovered easily in a day where she warm and at home... but traveling in these conditions is no good for anyone, much less so for someone taken ill."

"Her temperature was manageable but spiked so suddenly and unexpectedly less than an hour ago," Lady Westerling finally spoke, far less bitingly than he would have expected.

"We must bring the fever down. She must drink abundantly and keep pressing the cold rags to her forehead," Courin said.

Lady Sybell raised an eyebrow. "Well if you are to tell us what we already know then either lend a helping hand or leave," she said briskly pushing past him to her daughter.

She called for a servant and a rather odd young woman stepped forward with a bucket of ice-cold water. She seemed quite out of place and unused to being a maid. Courin thought nothing of it since experienced servants were surely hard to come by in these circumstances.

The Young Wolf's widows frowned ever so slightly at her mother before biting her lip as if thinking. "Mother, what of her throat?"

Lady Sybell ignored her completely, focusing instead on dousing the rags into the bucket and twirling them to get rid of the excess water. "Thank you, Meg."

At his questioning look, Jeyne Westerling elaborated. "Eleyna could barely speak today. It's been hurting badly for days but since last night her voice has gone completely hoarse."

"Quite normal," Courin began carefully. "The fever is cause for greater concern... however, there are certain herbs you can mix into her drink which will alleviate the soreness and her voice should be fine in a couple of days."

"Eleyna was foolish in not coming to me at the first sign of her symptoms when I could have nipped this in the bud," Lady Sybell said harshly. Apparently, they'd already had this discussion. "I've already mixed some medicine into her drinks."

"I just thought... It wouldn't hurt to tell the maester."

"Well, Tascer here is not a maester! Do you see any chains? A half-maester at best," Lady Sybell retorted snappishly.

So, the woman thought herself above him. She disliked taking counsel in herbs and healing from anyone less than a maester although Courin thought even a full maester might have trouble dealing with her.

Lady Westerling informed him what she'd already given to her daughter.

Surprisingly, Courin found himself agreeing with her. However, something must have shown on his face when she listed one ingredient he himself wouldn't have picked. He cursed inwardly. Courin wouldn't have said anything at all since Lady Westerling wasn't in the wrong either – just personal preferences he supposed – but the woman saw the brief motion and did not take it well. Almost as if she'd been actively seeking some excuse to quarrel, bully and bait him.

They did not manage to bring the fever down until at least an hour later.

"We shall have to monitor her the rest of the night to be safe," Courin said once Eleyna was back in bed after they'd been forced to bathe her in ice-cold water. Lady Sybell and the young widow helped the maid change Eleyna into her bedclothes.

As the servant stepped outside, Courin and Lady Westerling sat down watching Jeyne hand her weakened sister a glass of water.

"You best not speak, Eleyna," her mother warned. "You require a lot of rest so lie down once you've had your drink."

They fell into a moment of dull silence that was interrupted most unexpectedly. The moment became tense and fearful when they all first heard it.

The shouting and screaming.

The occupants of the tent sat still, straining their ears to make sure whilst exchanging brief uneasy glances amongst themselves. The sounds were very low at first – barely there – but grew louder and closer in a matter of seconds until they were clearly more than a trick of the mind. Both Courin and Lady Westerling stood up in alarm as the sisters remain seated, clutching each other's hands in fear. The older woman looked down at her daughters then turned to the entrance of their tent. Before she managed a single step, however, Meg came rushing in eyes wide but determined as she motioned for them all to step back.

Men were undeniably shouting and running outside. Courin thought he heard horses and the ringing of steel. The noise became louder and louder so, soon enough, he was sure he heard it… along with the screaming of dying men. A sudden flare of fire was seen through the tent to their right.

Someone gasped and Courin wheeled his head around just in time to see the maid pulling out a small slender sword. Indeed, she was no ordinary servant after all. She never even glanced at them, looking intently at the entrance of their tent instead.

And sure enough, a soldier - one of the guards from outside - pulled the flap aside. "We're being attacked," he shouted above the noise and his eyes fixed themselves onto the Young Wolf's widow.

In the split second that Courin realized what was about to happen, the armed maid launched herself onto the man and steel rang against steel.

A second guard swooped in, bow and arrow already in hand. Courin heard himself shout though he surely could not be heard above the rising cacophony all around them and out in the camp. One of the women screamed as well. In horror, he watched an arrow fly straight pass him. Meg jumped at the man but it was too late.

Everything happened so quickly that Courin missed it. He was finally made aware of himself when yet again, a female scream pierced his ears. Lady Sybell ran to her daughters who were holding each other, both shaken and covered in blood. Courin ignored the battle between the serving maid and the guards as he also rushed back to the two Westerling girls. The eldest was crying and pleading frantically as her sister slumped against her. He realized the blood belonged to Eleyna, the poor brave girl must have pushed her older sister out of the way and was struck by the arrow in her stead.

"Eleyna! Please – please!" Jeyne cried as Courin ripped open the girl's bedclothes to look at the wound. What he saw was not reassuring. He ordered Jeyne to hold her sister as still as possible as he pulled the arrow from her upper chest, nearly at her throat. Lady Sybell immediately pressed some cloth against the wound to stop the bleeding. The three of them lowered her to a lying position in bed.

More shouting engulfed the air around them around them. Courin was briefly aware of further movement behind them and realized more people must have come in but he ignored it all. Eleyna was deathly white, choking, her lips red with blood and fading fast.

He looked away in pain and defeat upon realizing there was no saving her. When he turned back his gaze met the hard red eyes of Sybell Spicer. Tears poured down her terrified face.

"Don't – Don't you dare say it!"

The woman had obviously come to the same conclusion.

"My Lady, I'm afraid –"

"Don't!" she shouted in a shrill voice suddenly grabbing his arm and pulling him down to her. Lady Westerling shut her eyes in grief before opening them again and looking around as if searching for a solution before they finally rested on her dying daughter. She briefly looked down at something in her hands, afraid and uncertain. When her eyes met his own again she seemed almost apologetic. "My grandmother was a _true_ maegi…" she whispered to herself with eyes wide and unseeing, so soft that he almost missed it. "I'm sorry," she gasped and Courin felt cold metal plunge sharply into his chest.

 _'The arrow I dropped'_ , he recalled fleetingly.

Her eyes looked wild and wide as they stared into his own.

"Jeyne, leave! Leave and hide! Take her! Please! Everyone leave this tent NOW!" she shouted in a voice so full of urgency that it left no room for argument.

Meg the maid, or whatever she was, and at least two other men he did not know dragged the reluctant young widow away from her sister's body. It wasn't until then that Courin noticed the dead body of the men Ser Forley had on watch. One of the strangers sliced open the back of the tent with his sword and they all followed him out, the others still forcibly dragging Jeyne Westerling out with them.

" _I'm sorry_ ," Lady Sybell whispered to him again and he realized she was just as scared as he. "I must save her - must _try_ …"

Courin felt something wet and cold he knew to be his own blood spreading across his chest. A horrible, frightening wailing filled his ears. The cold blood spread even further and he thought he saw shadows dancing around them until the room grew dark.

'

* * *

  **AN: Sorry this first chapter was narrated by an OC! This will be the only one I promise :) I decided to try following GRRM's prologue customs. Every single prologue POV character has died by the end of the chapter (or book) and there's always some sort of magic involved.**


	2. The Kraken in the Ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** I changed the title! ** Been going back and forth between the two and regretted not choosing this one. Sorry if it confused anyone! Also thought I should mention, the previous chapter has been edited a bit. Nothing major, though, just rearranging/fixing sentences and grammatical errors. Anyway, the first few chapters will resolve the three battle cliffhangers from ADWD (Meereen, Storm's End and Stannis's battle in the ice). Battle and fighting scenes are the most difficult for me to write so bear with me, lol :S
> 
> This chapter takes place after the Theon excerpt from The Winds of Winter so might help to read that first!

**THE KRAKEN IN THE ICE**

The men were carefully drilling holes into the frozen lakes. Well, drilling  _more_  holes since the icy lakes on either side of the abandoned crofter's village had enough of them already after they fished both to near emptiness.

But Stannis had given the order and the task was nearly done.

Asha turned away, unable to bear the biting cold any longer and continued trudging through the snow on her trek to the longhall, her steps slow and difficult. Tristifer Botley followed readily.

"Might just work, don't you think?"

She said nothing, only hummed noncommittally. The truth is she agreed Stannis Baratheon had been clever, making an otherwise wretched village and a solitary watchtower with no walls into something a bit more defensible. Making it into a place where he and his army could at least hold their ground. However, said army was also starved, covered in snow and half-frozen to death but Asha was most concerned over what she and her small band of ironborn should do.

Stepping into the longhall, Asha immediately spotted the others. It was not difficult considering they sat a bit further from everyone else for the ironborn were not liked by southerners nor the northerners, although said southerners and northerners could hardly stomach each other either. Each group implicitly sat among their own.

Asha squeezed herself into a small space between Qarl the Maid and Grimtongue, thankful for the added warmth offered by such close contact. after a curt nod at everyone she quietly delved into her supper – horse meat yet again – not fully engaging with the rest of her group as she chewed contemplatively.

Truth be told, the kraken's daughter pondered continuously over their next move. Tris had unwittingly sparked an idea within her back in Deepwood Motte when he spoke of Torgon the Latecomer and she remembered her Uncle telling her of the one time a kingsmoot's choice was overthrown. She never thought of it again after their harsh defeat and her subsequent capture but after seeing Theon again, having him so close by and still alive it snuck its way to the front of her mind. Asha could never sit the Seastone Chair no matter how much Qarl or Tris called her a queen but there was still one very small and final chance to lawfully raise the isles against Crow's Eye, to at least challenge the kingsmoot's decision.

But that notion had all but shattered into a thousand pieces once again.

As much as she would rather leave this god-forsaken village with her men and brother, such a thing was unlikely. At least for now. The king wanted her younger brother to pay for his sins, he wanted Theon dead to secure the Northmen even more tightly to his cause. The king was also a careful man and thus had them all watched – Theon literally chained inside the watchtower – so escape would be difficult. Perhaps the heat of battle might offer a chance of escape for them but then they'd have to contend with the weather and Asha would rather throw her lot in with Stannis.

Rather than have her thoughts dwell on the past and the loss of her home, she had to think of the present and, at present, Asha dearly hoped Stannis emerged victorious in this next battle. One look at what had become of her brother was enough for Asha to know she would rather descend to the Drowned God's watery halls than stand at the mercy of the Boltons.

She still had to hold back a shudder every time she thought of him.

"Missing your southron knight?" a low teasing voice whispered in her ear so unexpectedly Asha almost spilled the ale she had raised to her lips.

Asha turned her head to the right in order to face Qarl as she elbowed him sharply. "Well, you've been brooding so terribly just now," he laughed.

"Don't be stupid," she said rolling her eyes at him. She knew better than to think he was jealous,  _Qarl_  himself new better than to be jealous. But his teasing was slightly embarrassing, damned that Justin Massey for it was all his fault.

Not two days ago, near midday, the man had approached her in front of Roggon, Rook, Qarl, Tris, Fingers and Grimtongue. He pulled her to the side, thankfully, and gave her a long-winded goodbye for apparently Stannis had ordered him off to Braavos after dealing with the Iron Banker.

Asha found herself slightly irritated but mostly amused.

His attempts to court her favor with food and wine had been convenient for her though hopelessly fruitless for him since his chances of wooing her into marriage were nil. The knight also made for better company than most when she had been alone amongst her foes but she would hardly miss it now that the Iron Banker ransomed and brought a handful of her own men.

"My only comfort, my Lady, is that your own men are here to guard you…" The kraken's daughter nearly laughed but politely remained quiet, out of gratitude for his helpfulness all this time if anything else.

After one last curtsy, the blue-eyed flaxen-haired man walked away. Asha returned to her group talking quietly amongst themselves. She noticed Tris had been eyeing her and Massey intently the entire time though she hardly cared. However, when she saw Qarl – who, for all intents and purposes seemed deep in conversation – briefly looking away from the talking Roggon to offer her a teasing smirk she hid a scowl and instead raised a challenging eyebrow, just to let him know teasing would have no effect on her. Of course, she expected it regardless.

"Well then, what are you thinking so hard about?" Qarl asked presently.

"You know." They all did. The seven of them had argued over their situation many times in the past couple of days.

Qarl shrugged turning back to his food. "Let us first face the battle tomorrow then worry over what might come after. I, for one, am happy we shall have our swords and axes with us."

 _Indeed, the Drowned God has not forgotten us for Stannis allowed us weapons at least_ , Asha thought. Of course, Qarl the Maid - a warrior to the bone like the rest of her band except for Tris - would think that away and he was not mistaken. The kraken's daughter had enough of fretting, she would be ready for the battle in the ice tomorrow.

Sure, enough, the next day Asha stood firm in her leathers and the steel plates she'd scavenged among the wagons as the sound of trumpets and warhorns blasted all around her sending shivers of anticipation in her. She gripped the handle of her ax tighter, reveling the feel of a weapon in hand once again.

Stannis and his men would hold their ground beneath the shadow of the watchtower, all of them facing the larger lake to the north. The ironborn among them so he could keep a tight leash no doubt.

Asha had not been present for strategizing amongst the lords and captains but the She-Bear had no qualms in telling her about it.

Having questioned Theon, Stannis knew Roose Bolton sent the Frey and Manderly men. He believed the two had split soon after leaving Winterfell. Hosteen Frey was by no means a capable commander said the She-Bear so Stannis had accurately predicted their move. By all reports, the larger portion of the host, near 2,000 men, would attack from the north. The rest, a much smaller force, had separated and fallen a little behind but would surely strike from the south.

So, the bulk of their own army faced north – 1,300 southern knights and men-at-arms with half of the 1,200 northerners made up of Mormont, Glover, Cerwyn and Tallhart men. The other half stood to the south, facing the other frozen lake. Meanwhile, the 2,500 mountain clansmen of House Wull, Flint, Norrey and Liddle lay in wait to the east, spread out and hidden in the Wolfswood prepared to contain any army approaching from the east through the strip of land between both lakes where the crofter's village stood. The She-Bear and Asha both agreed they were the best-suited for the job since the mountain clansmen had a better grasp of the forest than anyone else and could, therefore, move more easily to where they were most needed, to block their enemies retreat if possible or perhaps provide aid to their allies. The wolves were most eager to sink their teeth into Frey meat, they hungered for it.

Asha looked up at the shining beacon of the watchtower, the single most visible thing around. She could make out a bit of the frozen lake in front of her although she couldn't see as far as the heart tree in the middle of it, much less the other shore. Her vision counted for little in the snow so her ears were alert as those of a hound.

The sound of trumpets resonated back to them from the other side. The enemy had arrived and they could see the light. Like moths to a flame, she heard them charging across the frozen lake towards their beacon. Stannis had accurately judged Hosteen Frey. Amongst the war cries of the men around her, the trumpets and yells of their charging adversary grew louder. The thundering of hooves echoed loudly and Asha knew their cavalry ran ahead.

 _Idiots,_ she laughed.

Finally, their darks shapes became visible through the snow. The leading wave of cavalry was way past the halfway point but Stannis's host stood their ground. A low rumble and cracking joined the cacophony but before anyone could think twice the ice started to break, groaning and cracking angrily. The loud charging war cries of the Frey men became frightened shouts. The horses were far too heavy and the host too big for the ice to hold, especially when it had been rendered delicate after so many holes had been cut into it. Asha watched with unmasked fascination as the snowy scene became one of desperation. Horses whined in terror and men fell into the freezing depths dragged down by the weight of their armor. The entire lake seemed to be pulling them down; drowning them violently. By the sound of it, Asha knew the ice had cracked all the way to the other shore, swallowing both horsemen and those on foot alike.

Most of the Freys charging across the frozen lake seemed to be drowning but the ones that managed to make it through were met readily by the waiting coalition of southern and northerners who charged as soon as their foes came onto solid ground. The king's men yelled and further down the wolves ran forth howling. Horses were met with spears and soon the sound of steel rang above anything else. Asha raised her shield to block a man's sword then struck him in the belly with her ax. Horses screamed and reared in pure terror. She threw herself to the left narrowly avoiding being run over by one. She was quicker than the next man, cutting his hand off clean with an enormous amount of force behind her slash before slashing his throat open for good measure. Asha could hear her fellow ironborn cursing and screaming ferociously while battling in her vicinity She threw an ax at her next adversary then spun to find another one advancing on her. A blow knocked the wind out of her, thankfully her steel plate had not been pierced but she would definitely find a large ugly bruise in that very spot come tomorrow. Somehow she managed to drive the pointed edge of her dirk into a crevice in his armor. The sting of the long thrusting dagger proved enough to distract him so she could move away and throw her last ax right into his face. She saw a horse running in her direction and quickly pulled a spear from a body on the ground and stabbed at the charging horseman knocking him off his horse. She then drove the spear into him, pulling it out roughly dripping with blood.

Before long her arms ached, her legs shook and her throat had gone dry. Asha could still barely see through the snow although her ears recognized the grunts and screams to be fewer. She lost all notion of time and the blood had frozen on the skin of her face when her back came up against Fingers and Qarl whom she'd lost sight of long ago. Fingers pierced a man's chest with a broad heavy blade.

A trumpet blew and a roar erupted from the battle ground. For a moment, Asha stood in a daze, numb from fighting not fully understanding until the stag with a flaming heart rose above them in victory. Asha let out a shout of her own, raising her shield in celebration. Qarl the Maid and Fingers bumped each other's chest with a hard fist before Qarl turned to her with a wide grin, his hair matted with sweat and a blood-spattered face matching her own. If possible, her heart hammered even more furiously against her ribcage and Asha grinned back wanting nothing more than to jump him then and there. She had not been in his arms since Deepwood Motte but tonight surely they'd find a moment to slip away unseen, so the heat in her belly would have to wait till then.

At present, they'd all revel in the aftermath of the battle and Asha smiled to herself knowing she had once again avoided the halls waiting beneath the sea for every god-fearing ironborn.

//

The next day Asha woke up sore in every inch of her body but feeling more like the kraken's daughter than she had in so long. The sky was white but no brighter than yesterday as she pushed her way out of the tent in her heavy furs.

After their victory news of the northern forces positioned to the south reach them quickly. They had not seen battle for the Manderlys never came.

Instead, the merlings arrived near nightfall, marching into the village from the wolfswood alongside the mountain clansmen with Hosteen Frey's head on a pike raised up high in display.

However, it wasn't until she was outside the watchtower the next day that Asha heard the entire story. An enormous crowd gathered waiting for their commanders to come out. She noticed the knights with three silver mermaids on a violet field amongst the Northmen.

Asha was quick to learn the shrewd merlings had first ridden south before doubling back once they were out of sight from the Freys. The Manderly host of 300 men attacked the Freys as they retreated from the northern-most shore, blocking them from getting off the lake and effectively killing them all. Their commander had been holed up with Stannis in his watchtower for most of the night and again this morning. Asha dearly wished to hear whatever plan they were concocting up there. So much that she  _almost_  envied Theon.

They all waited for the better part of the morning.

Asha held her impatience at bay, a task made easier by the lingering feelings of satisfaction after yesterday's battle. She remained standing in the snow with her men looking forward to the ale they'd surely taste for supper, no longer brooding and instead prepared for whatever was coming for she  _was_  ironborn. Even amongst the wolves and southern flowers she had never stopped being ironborn or the kraken's daughter.

Excitement shot up when some of the lords and commanders finally walked out of the watchtower. Through the crowd, Asha caught a glimpse of Ser Richard Horpe. She also spotted the She-Bear and Big Bucket Wull along with a couple of bearded Manderly knights. One of them raised a gloved hand and shouted.

Like her, the other six ironborn also survived the Battle in the Ice relatively unscathed save for a few ugly cuts and heavy bruises and were all in good spirits. However, none were in higher spirits than the wolves, that was certain. She watched silently as some howled while others raised their fists, their shouts disturbing the otherwise silent snow-covered surroundings.

" _The North remembers!_ "

 


	3. Ser Barristan I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've read the Barristan and Tyrion pre-released chapters from TWOW in A World of Ice and Fire mobile app, they're available once you download the app. Reading both before this chapter will be a plus though not necessary. If anyone's interested, here's a link to a very detailed summary of the two Ser Barristan excerpts GRRM read in public, one of them is the chapter mentioned above (scroll down a bit to find the more detailed post): http://asoiaf.westeros.org/index.php?/topic/81338-twow-spoilers-barristan/

**SER BARRISTAN I**

Deflecting yet another arrow with his shield, Ser Barristan reared his horse in time to see the Harpy's Daughter collapse in the distance. The Unsullied succeeded in taking down another of the Yunkish trebuchets. The Ghiscari legions amassed around her, along with the Company of the Cat, never stood a chance; less so when the Tattered Prince switched sides and his two thousand Windblown men took them unexpectedly from behind. But from what he could see, the fighting was still fierce in that direction.

Of the six sister siege engines, only Dragonbreaker he knew to be undoubtedly secure for it stood on the northern side of the Skahazadhan. Ser Barristan was unable to get a glimpse of Mazdhan's Fist either from his position, but Tal Toraq and his Stalwart Shields were engaging the Ghiscari encamped over there and, the Warrior willing, would hopefully persevere over their enemy at the eastern gate.

Those two trebuchets were the farthest from his own attack against the main Yunkish camp situated to the west, between the city walls and the warm waters of Slaver's Bay.

The Ghost had been positioned closer to the southern gate and was long dragged over with chains by the Mother's Men after they broke the Long Lances.

The Harridan, largest of the six, was brought down by their cavalry - made up of himself, his squires and the Stormcrows - along with the pit fighters on foot. Between them and the Ironborn, the enemy legions were breaking easily. Almost too easily. At this rate, the Battle of Slaver's Bay might be over sooner than they ever imagined. Ser Barristan could hardly believe their luck; the battle had most certainly taken a turn in their favor and the Yunkai'i were all in obvious disarray. Of the four trebuchets in his vicinity, only the Wicked Sister remained. She stood somewhat in line with the Harridan beside the bay but further from the city of Meereen and farthest from them but the old knight meant to take her down too.

He signaled to the Red Lamb, who after slicing a man's gut open lifted the great silver-banded warhorn Ser Barristan entrusted him with and sounded the command. The three lads he was training – the only three squires he allowed into battle today – had not strayed far from his side. They fought and carried their duties admirably. Even when hit in the chest by an arrow, Larraq the Lash kept the banner he was holding straight and up high. Larraq had been entrusted with the Kingsguard standard while Tumco Lho carried the Targaryen three-headed dragon banner. Red on black.

As the warhorn sounded and sounded again, Ser Barristan spurred the silver mare forward. Forcefully pushing back at the enemy in an attempt to break through. The three lads did the same for the Stormcrows knew to follow his lead using the two banners they carried as visual guides. He thrashed his sword about, slicing at his enemies on foot. One spear he pushed back with his shield before knocking the soldier holding it down with a blow to the head. Sweat trickled down his face, probably mingling with the caked blood already spattered about. The familiar ache that spread throughout his body over the extended strain caused by the fighting had gone numb so that he barely felt any of it. The fast pounding of his blood - brought on by the excitement - surely aided in pushing the ache to the back of his mind as well. That would not last long he knew from experience. Later today, and for the next few days, he'd feel the backlash.

An uncharacteristically delighted cry to his left had him turning his head sharply to see the Red Lamb pointing forward. Ser Barristan's gaze followed his finger to see the Wicked Sister burning far ahead. _How did I not notice any fighting in that direction?_ he wondered almost wildly, concerned over his dulled alertness.

It was too far for him to make out exactly what was going on so he shouted out to the lad, asking him to describe what he saw with his younger eyes.

"Cavalry!" the boy shouted back to be heard over the screaming and ringing of steel in the air. "Attacking the slave legion below the trebuchet!"

Ser Barristan watched the boy as he peered ahead, squinting his eyes as if to see better. His eyes widened suddenly, "A sellsword cavalry!" the Red Lamb said quickly looking back at him.

"Who?" he demanded, glee bubbling up inside him at this revelation right before striking yet another foe down with his sword. "Can you make out their banner?"

"Broken sword..." The boy gasped. "Second Sons!"

Ser Barristan whipped his head in their direction as if this newfound information would somehow enable him to see better.

This day was not short of surprises it seemed. First the Ironborn, now this.

So… the treacherous Second Sons turned their cloaks, _again_ ; on the Wise Masters this time round. _No doubt that was their plan all along_ , _or so Brown Ben Plumm will claim_ , Ser Barristan thought sardonically. Slippery and dishonorable as they were, the Second Sons' force of five hundred mounted men was not unwelcome. He did not have to like it but Ser Barristan hardly had a choice. Besides, he could scarcely expect anything more from sellswords. He'd always known that.

Ser Barristan was brought back from his musings and into his own predicament when he heard Larraq's whip sound close to him. Far too close.

He looked down to see the boy had just struck an enemy who'd been intent on attacking the old knight. In the blink of an eye, the whip curled itself angrily around the man's neck, its cracking sound filling his old ears once more. Larraq pulled his whip arm back with a snap and Ser Barristan's would-be attacker was thrown to the ground by the whip choking him.

 _This is not the moment to become distracted,_ he chided himself. Instead, he should fight harder than ever now that victory was in sight. The gods seemed to have heard his prayers that morning before dawn when he knelt to the Seven. However, he'd best remember the battle was not over yet and until then, the old knight could not allow his own overconfidence to become his ruin. Falling into a false sense of security was dangerous in war, one should never underestimate his enemies.

Ser Barristan charged through more enemy soldiers. A man was screaming in Ghiscari in the ground ahead of him, bloodied and with a mangled leg. Ser Barristan did not stop then and not even after when he saw the pit fighter Senaera She-Snake's corpse a few paces away. It had been nothing but folly for her not to wear armor in a battlefield, and she was not the first he'd seen that day for many stubborn pit fighters had already paid for such foolish bravado with their lives.

Hours seemed to pass, or perhaps only minutes. Time was a strange thing in any battle but the one thing Ser Barristan was sure of was that the Second Siege of Meereen, the Battle of Slaver's Bay, was nearing its end.

A shadow passed over them once more and this time Ser Barristan didn't even look up. Rhaegal was still circling the clashing ships in the bay, still diving up and down in the air menacingly. Viserion, on the other hand, had been setting the corpses thrown by the trebuchets aflame earlier. Since the white dragon retreated to his lair – probably having had his fill of corpses and excitement – Rhaegal's loop had been growing steadily wider, presently extending beyond the bay and over the fighting on the shore. The men pissed themselves and some screamed or froze in fear every time they caught a glimpse of his shadow.

Two spears came at Ser Barristan at once and he struggled to fight them off. The queen's silver mare whinnied and reared, her hooves landing back heavily after. With his shield, he held one of the men off as he tried striking the other with his sword. A sharp pain had him whirling around to see the latter's spear had managed to circumvent his shield, stabbing him in the armpit, one of the weak spots in any armor along with every other joint. Ser Barristan gritted his teeth in pain and reared his horse again attempting to shake them off. Through the corner of his eye he saw another foe riding furiously at him, a Ghiscari sergeant he briefly recognized by the iron halfhelm with horsehair crest, but it was far too late for Ser Barristan to defend himself against the crunching blow of the man's hammer. Somehow, he managed to stay ahorse but the hammer knocked the wind out of him and more.

His vision faded in and out and everything started to darken. He heard shouting as another rider came galloping up to him, Tumco Lho, one of his pupils… Ser Barristan recognized his voice as the lad fought the spearmen. Through the growing haziness, he heard the cracking of a whip and knew another of his squires had also come to his aid. And that was his last thought before the old knight's world turned black.

//

A faint light shone through as his eyes fluttered softly. The haze of sleep had not yet cleared so it took a while for him to fully awaken and focus on his surroundings.

It was early morning. Ser Barristan recognized his small chamber adjacent to the queen's own apartments within the Great Pyramid of Meereen. He was not surprised for he'd been traveling back and forth between sleep and consciousness and was thus vaguely aware of some things. How much time had passed, however, he knew not. Today he awakened fully for the first time.

Sitting in a chair by the door, he spotted Missandei.

Ser Barristan smiled or at least attempted to through his cracked lips, realizing the girl had probably been tending to him since the battle.

Closing his eyes, the old knight was almost tempted to fall back asleep. With an internal groan, he recalled his duties and panicked. Quickly he went through a list of matters he knew needed resolving, trying to remember them all and wondering again how long it'd been.

Ser Barristan called to the girl softly. The knight was loathed to wake her but the sense of urgency overtook him. He needed to know what happened, or what was happening, beyond the walls of his chambers.

He watched her stir before her eyes focused on him and widened. Missandei quickly stood up, opened the door and called to someone before rushing to his side with a goblet of water. Tumco Lho, the boy from the Basilisk Isles and the most natural young swordsman he'd seen in more than a decade, walked in through the door. The lad must have been standing guard outside.

Ser Barristan sat up with a harsh wince and drank slowly. The pressure in his chest was near unbearable. He looked down to see the damage to his torso. A nasty bruise covered what little of his chest was not wrapped in cloth.

Tumco promptly assured him of their victory to which the old knight nodded with a small but sure smile.

Missandei explained his injuries, that was given much milk of the poppy for the pain which explained why he was unable to fully awaken until this morning. The blow to his chest from the warhammer had been very bad apparently, nearly crushing his ribs and she kept repeating it would be best for him to limit the movement of his left arm for the next week or so due to the spear wound.

"Your armor was dented terribly," Tumco added. "But we already sent it to a blacksmith…"

"H-how long have I…?" he asked in a raspy voice. His throat was still dry but Ser Barristan knew it'd be unwise of him not to drink sparingly in small moderate sips.

Tumco understood his query.

"Three days," he answered matter-of-factly.

Ser Barristan almost winced again, this time for what he learned.

"Who's been in command of the city?" he asked even though he knew the answer. Who else could it be but the Shavepate?

When Tumco confirmed it, Ser Barristan felt himself grow even wearier. He bit the inside of his mouth.

In the great scope of things, three days was very little time… _yet three days was far too long for the city to be in the hands of Skahaz mo Kandaq._

The old knight did not doubt the nobleman's loyalty nor capabilities, it was the Shavepate's methods he feared. The man was more than capable of holding Meereen and bringing order after the battle, which is why Skahaz was given command of the city when everyone else marched off to face the Yunkish siege. However, knowing the Ghiscari man's underhanded and harsh proclivities, Ser Barristan suspected the Shavepate probably did so with an iron fist, more so than necessary most like… especially when there was nobody around to reign him in. Ser Barristan did not approve of the Shavepate's manner and refused to leave the city's governing in his hand even a minute more than necessary.

Ser Barristan moved to stand. The young girl protested but Tumco helped him up at his command. The lad was strong, both physically and within, so he probably understood he could not lay in bed any longer.

The old knight gently reasoned with Missandei, explained he was duty-bound to protect the city for their queen. She bit her lip but protested no further and walked out of his chambers with orders to call for an immediate council meeting. The council he set up to rule Meereen after Hizdahr was deposed.

 _The girl is worried for my health_ , he thought. _But I cannot afford to stay here any longer._ He could not fail Daenerys.

As Ser Barristan dressed, Tumco Lho quickly filled him in on everything he knew. The boy answered all of his questions, however difficult.

And so it was how Ser Barristan learned Hizdahr zo Loraq was dead. He would not grieve the man but anger and a sense of failure gripped his chest nonetheless.

There was only one word to describe what had been happening within the walls of Meereen since he left through the western gate in that red dawn of battle: blood.

According to Tumco, their queen's husband was killed in an attempt to escape his imprisonment. The Sons of the Harpy's conspired to free the king while the battle still raged outside the city walls. The Brazen Beasts were thus forced to deal with their continued treachery even as they fulfilled their duty manning the city walls and gatehouse battlements as a last defense should the battle end in disfavor. A smaller scale fight from within the city to mirror the much larger one outside.

 _Or so says the Shavepate,_ Ser Barristan thought grimly.

Now he might never learn the truth of the poisoned locust assassination plot against Daenerys. He promised Hizdahr his safety until proven guilty, so the man became yet another person Ser Barristan failed to protect. The Shavepate had insisted they kill the treacherous Hizdahr and Ser Barristan felt the same though he refused to do so until the king's involvement was proven without a doubt.

His dislike and suspicions towards Hizdahr zo Loraq were enough for Ser Barristan to know his attempted escape was well within the realm of possibility. The Shavepate's thirst for blood, dishonorable tactics and, most of all, his deep hatred for the queen's husband also allowed the possibility of it all being nothing more than a set up for the king to be decisively executed.

 _I am not meant for these games_ , Ser Barristan thought for what might have been the millionth time.

"And the Sons of the Harpy?" he asked suddenly. "Have they retaliated?" It was a foolish question, for he need not ask to know the Harpy would strike in revenge.

Tumco looked more troubled than ever now. He hesitated and looked sideways as if searching for the proper words before he answered.

_Mother's mercy, was it that bad?_

Tumco finished helping Ser Barristan clasp his white cloak around his shoulders before recounting how the city was close to war with itself. The freedmen companies – Stalwart Shields, Mother's Men and Free Brothers – had been enlisted to help the Brazen Beasts and Unsullied in keeping some modicum of control. The body count of Unsullied, shavepates and freedmen was horrifying.

Yet more horrifying was the Shavepate's next move.

Ser Barristan had to sit down to recover himself from the shock. The worst had come to happen. The violence and brutalities Meereen suffered he regretted deeply. His heart wept for the victims and the queen's pending heartbreak upon her return. The guilt and fury he felt upon hearing of Hizdahr zo Loraq's death was nothing compared to now.

He asked Tumco to give him a moment, heard the boy leave without a word with the door clicking shut behind him and Ser Barristan was once again alone.

Alone he allowed himself to fully feel the grief, fury, and disgust. The onslaught of emotions almost made him retch.

He remembered the Shavepate's words bitterly. _The loss of a few coins will never stay the Harpy's hand. Only blood can do that,_ he said to Ser Barristan only a few of days ago.

Hostages, the Shavepate called them. And he'd been keen on reminding both the queen and Ser Barristan of that at every turn lest they forget.

Unwittingly, Ser Barristan's mind went back to Rhaegar Targaryen. His children.

Young Princess Rhaenys stabbed a hundred times and the babe… Prince Aegon whose head was smashed so brutally beyond recognition. He never saw the bodies himself but heard the tale. A tale that haunted him like no other.

Ser Barristan fought back thoughts of his greatest failure, his greatest regret, afraid they might consume him.

How did matters escalate so quickly within a short span of three days? How was it possible for peace to be so elusive? Why were the innocents the ones who suffered most from war?

 _If the slavers kill one of ours, we kill one of theirs_ , again the Shavepate's words floated in his mind. Skahaz mo Kandaq had been an unrelenting advocate of using the queen's young cupbearers from the old slaving families to keep the Sons of the Harpy in line.

Once again, Ser Barristan Selmy - Ser Barristan the Bold - had been lying wounded in bed while the innocents he meant to protect were murdered without mercy.

He stood up, shaking the grief away. He would never forget this and would never forgive the Shavepate for it but he would try to be as level-headed as possible. He needed his wits about him now more than ever in order to play this vile game. The people of Meereen depended upon it. They depended on him until Daenerys returned.

He swatted away the uncertainty around that last thought as he had been doing since she flew away with Drogon.

The Shavepate's despicably brutal deed, along with the newer elements within the city such as the Ironborn and Second Sons, had to be dealt with and Ser Barristan could not present himself before the council today looking weak.

Striding across his chambers, Ser Barristan held the pain at bay as he opened the doors to leave.

Tumco Lho stood outside waiting, along with the Red Lamb. Good. The two boys might aid him on his descent to the Hall. In the Hall, the audience hall, where the queen once held court from her plain ebony bench, Ser Barristan placed a round table in the center after they seized Hizdahr so nobody would dare presume to hold court in her absence.

"Larraq the Lash is with the other squires, Ser," the Red Lamb said. "We've been taking turns in training and watching over."

Ser Barristan nodded in approval. Perhaps it _was_ time to knight the three lads... he thought of it once before, he should probably revisit the notion.

Other than the two squires, he saw Strong Belwas and two Unsullied also standing guard.

_Had the boys, Grey Worm and former pit fighter feared an attempt on my life while I lay near comatose in bed?_

Ser Barristan began his difficult descent with his odd retinue in tow, thankful that the queen's audience hall was only a single level below her apartments for he might not have made if it were more.

The shaved head of Skahaz mo Kandaq already waiting for him seated was the first thing Ser Barristan saw upon entering the purple pillared hall. The Hall was empty except for the Ghiscari noble and Grey Worm. Rage reared violently within Ser Barristan so that he saw red. Even with years of practice keeping his face impassive within the Red Keep, Ser Barristan must have been unable to hide his disgust nor his fury judging by the Shavepate's first words to him.

"It had to be done," was all he said, rising from his seat. Defiant and unrepentant.

Ser Barristan was not surprised. He knew the man, knew his ways.

"How _dare_ you take such action? You knew I would not allow it, you knew the _queen_ would never have allowed it!"

"Yet you were indisposed and the queen is still absent," he answered tersely.

"Your behavior borders on treason, Shavepate," Ser Barristan warned in a steely voice.

"The battle might have been won out there," he said cocking his head towards the city walls visible through the high windows. "But a war is still being fought in here! I warned you the Sons of the Harpy could not be stopped with a simple slap on the wrist. _Fifty_ of _our_ men, killed in a total of two nights, did you hear?"

"Aye, I did," Ser Barristan responded. "Because you saw it fit to execute Hizdahr zo Loraq…"

"Loraq was a spineless traitor. He almost escaped, through no cunningness of his own, and indeed during the struggle within this very pyramid, I killed him with my own two hands as promised."

 _Most violently no doubt_ , thought Ser Barristan.

"But the _children_ –"

"Blood of traitors all of them. I said it once and I say it again: What good are hostages if you will not take their heads?" the Shavepate interrupted with a growl, ignoring Ser Barristan's obvious horror at his words. "Well, now the Harpy knows we are no longer playing games. In the span of a single day after your victory, and of Hizdahr zo Loraq's death, the Harpy slew twenty men! Of course, we retaliated; you may call it vile but that is the purpose of _hostages_. The following night, thirty of ours dead. But I knew they would strike at least once more so before dawn - before we even knew thirty more were killed - the Brazen Beasts seized two members from each family. So now we have new hostages and the Harpy has been silent since though I suspect they might not be silent long. Tonight we shall see whether the Sons of the Harpy learned their lesson yet."

Ser Barristan lips thinned in frustration when he was prevented from answering as the large doors to the hall opened loudly.

Turning back to face the Shavepate he said in a lower voice, "This conversation is far from over, Skahaz mo Kandaq. There will be a full inquiry on this matter and the circumstances surrounding Hizdahr's death, take my word for it."

The Shavepate didn't so much as blink.

"You are more than welcome to, Ser. The city is once again in your hands."

And that was the final word between them.

Ser Barristan watched him scurry away back to his seat before focusing on the new arrivals.

Rommo, Tal Toraq, commander of the Stalwart Shields and finally the Stormcrows' Daario Naharis. The Widower, Daario's second-in-command, and Jokin, commander of the company's archers, were not with the Tyroshi.

The men greeted Ser Barristan, expressing their delight at his recovery before taking a seat each.

Not long after, came Symon Stripeback, commander of the Free Brothers, and Marselen of the Mother's Men.

Before anyone said a word, Barristan listed all he intended to discuss. He also encouraged everyone to accept inviting the commanders of the newest additions to the city – the Windblown, Second Sons, and the Iron Fleet. Most of the men seated grumbled and protested a little, much as they had when Ser Barristan invited the pit fighters to attend the war council against the Yunkai'i. They protested particularly against the Second Sons.

The Tattered Prince, Brown Ben Plumm and Greyjoy had little right to a voice within the council, they were new arrivals after all, but Ser Barristan had not forgotten the Volantene fleet was on its way and he needed all the help he could get to withstand yet another siege. With that in mind, the protestations lasted little and all agreed they would be invited to join them after midday to discuss the city's defense. Everything else was to be discussed before their arrival.

Grey Worm sent his men to carry the messages.

Once the meeting commenced, Ser Barristan could almost swear he was not in the Great Pyramid of Meereen but in a circus instead.

Nobody seemed to agree. Grey Worm, despite being a man of few words, clearly resented the Shavepate for his decisions as much as Ser Barristan. The others were mostly neutral though Daario perhaps thought the Shavepate had the right idea. No surprises there, like most sellswords Daario was faithless and brutal.

By noon, little was resolved and the debate ran in circles.

They were once again fighting over what measure to take against the Sons of the Harpy by the time the guards outside announced the arrival of Tattered Prince with Brown Ben Plumm closely behind. However, the surprise was who came in waddling after the Second Son's commander. The last person Ser Barristan Selmy ever expected to see in Meereen: Tyrion Lannister.

Ser Barristan could do nothing to hide his shock, to which the Imp remarked smartly as expected.

The old knight ignored the Imp's jape. Tywin Lannister's youngest son had always been a presence in King's Landing since he was the queen's kin after all, though Ser Barristan thought little of his hobbies. He heard rumors of the Imp taking charge of the city while his father was at war but knew not if they were true.

The man had changed tremendously in appearance since the last time Ser Barristan saw him. Most noticeable was the grisly scar on his face which removed most of his nose.

What _was_ he doing halfway around the world? Was it some sort of Lannister trick?

"I would introduce you to the newest member of the Second Sons but it seems you two are already acquainted," Brown Ben remarked.

Ser Barristan did not respond, instead pinning the cowardly turncloak with a cold stare.

"Indeed, we are," the Imp spoke up. "Now you might wonder why our old brown friend here invited me to this meeting but I have much and more to share. Interesting news you might do well to listen to."

Ser Barristan cleared his throat. "Then, I shall hear your story after the meeting."

Though how much of it was true, he did not know. He'd have to be a fool to trust Tyrion Lannister but Ser Barristan's curiosity was so tremendous that he would hear him out.

Addressing the Tattered Prince, Ser Barristan asked after the Dornish knights he sent before the battle to bargain with the Windblown's leader. Ser Gerris Drinkwater and Ser Archibald Yronwood, Prince Quentyn Martell's companions.

"Do not fret for the lads are safe and in the city."

"I would like a word with them later, this evening perhaps." Ser Barristan vowed to have the unfortunate prince's remains sent to his father in Dorne and he would entrust his two friends with that duty. Ser Barristan meant to have the Dornish out of the city as soon as possible. Meereen had never been safe for them.

The Pentoshi sellsword nodded before finding a seat of his own.

The last to arrive was Victarion Greyjoy, Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet. Within minutes, Ser Barristan figured the Ironborn would prove difficult, if not become an open problem.

The Tattered Prince, Plumm, Lannister and Greyjoy said little on the subject of the Harpy and Meereen itself. Ser Barristan knew what the Tattered Prince wanted and he most likely cared nothing of Meereen other than surviving the Volantene fleet so he could have his due. Plumm and Lannister were wisely silent. _And harder to read._

Victarion Greyjoy, on the other hand, was of a mind with the Shavepate. The man spoke little, even stated his indifference to the city's fate – in terse but colorful words – but the single instance he did speak was enough for Ser Barristan to see the sort of man he was. Violence was his way, that much was obvious. _Certainly living up to the Ironborns' reputation._

Ser Barristan realized just how difficult getting the different parties to agree on anything would be, yet he did not wish to compromise on his own stance. They circled and sniped at each other. Quarreling amongst themselves. Threats of violence were made. In the end, the only conclusion they came upon and agreed on unanimously was that, with the Volantene Fleet still on their way to Meereen and Daenerys missing, they had something far greater to worry about.


	4. Theon I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! End of the year is just crazy busy at work but things have calmed down now so I've finally had more time to write! I'll try posting a chapter per week from here on :)

  **THEON I**

The high and sharp trilling of a snow shrike permeated the silence of the dark. The hour of the wolf – the blackest part of the night – was creeping its way closer and closer. Theon listened in perfect stillness for what he knew was about to happen. Another answered, just as sharp and high.

 _The signal_. Theon recognized what it meant.

He knew everything; heard the entire plan from the moment it was conceived high up in the watchtower overlooking that godforsaken village now mercifully left behind. Yet, his position has not improved an inch considering he currently finds himself with his hands tied together sitting in one of the tents erected by Mors "Crowfood" Umber, half-buried in the snow and far from the walls of Winterfell.

Outside, the snow was falling silently. Not so heavily tonight but still enough so that it was not easy to see too far into the distance. Tonight, the snow would serve their purpose well; make them ghosts stealing into the looming castle already full with its own ghosts. _Old and new. There are already many ghosts in Winterfell_ , Theon knew. _Too many_.

 _Ahooooooooooooooooo._ A horn echoed through the night in a long low moan and Theon knew the gates of Winterfell must be wide open by now. He strained his ears in an attempt to hear more than the horns and beyond the snow covered wolfswood. Whether in fear or anticipation, he is not sure, but he listens all the same for there it is... the faint sound of steel and men at war. The loud horn, the drums, the snow and the distance all do a marvelous job muffling the sounds of a siege, the sounds of a siege breaching enemy walls, but Theon Greyjoy hears it all the same. He is sure.

Theon had asked to fight, had asked to be allowed a sword in his hands again. Then at least he might die a man, which was more than he could hope for now.

Ser Godry Farring laughed outright. Cruel and mocking.

"The turncloak would sooner run away," said Big Bucket Wull eyeing him with distrust whilst spitting on the ground.

"Theon. My name is Theon," he had muttered then.

And Theon had not asked again. He had not spoken again, at least not until spoken to first.

Now he sat silently again, looking around the barely lit tent. His guard seemed quite unhappy and just as eager as him to strain his ears and listen to the battle. Another was posted outside. Both were Stannis' men, southrons.

The plan was madness. Almost as mad as Theon's had been when he captured Winterfell.

The ancient castle's walls were near impossible to breach even with a much, _much_ larger force than this. When Theon took Winterfell, the castle was lightly held and the ironborn had darkness and surprise on their side… something Stannis had, almost inexplicably, replicated for himself.

Four days ago, in the Battle on the Ice, the host of two-thousand Freys were annihilated. Between Stannis, the lake, and the Manderlys who betrayed them, not one escaped to tell the tale. Roose Bolton had been right to fear the other northerners, and Manderly most of all. They hated Bolton and loved the Starks, all of them. They only ever cooperated with him under duress. But now, the time was ripe and it seems the northern lords have long been plotting against him. All waiting for the moment he let his guard down, the moment he bared a weakness to exploit.

Stannis had been suspicious of the merlings, probably still was. Everyone knew Lord Manderly had previously refused Stannis and his Hand disappeared on his way to White Harbor, after all. But the Manderly knights knew nothing of the Onion Knight and instead swore Lord Manderly would tell the truth of it once Winterfell was delivered from Roose Bolton and his bastard.

 _Not bastard_ , Theon thought in panic.

Stannis had asked Theon all he knew and seen from within the castle. Theon did not doubt the merlings. The murders within the castle from before he escaped had all parties on edge... the northmen, and the Freys had been a breath away from violence within the walls of Winterfell. Theon knew that well, he would never forget seeing the fear in Roose Bolton's eyes back then.

A plan was devised by Stannis with his knights and the northern lords up in the watchtower. The Karstark treachery proved somewhat useful in the end. The Manderlys would return to Winterfell with Stannis' own men dressed as Freys and Karstarks claiming victory and that Stannis Baratheon had sunk to the frozen depths. As proof, they would present his own glowing magical sword to the Boltons.

"Perhaps, it might yet serve some purpose," Stannis had said almost scathingly.

Meanwhile, the rest of their forces would creep behind to join Crowfood Umber in secret. If all went well, that very night the infiltrators along with Whoresbane Umber's men were to open the gates for Stannis, the rest of his southron soldiers and the northerners to pour in and slaughter the Boltons.

Theon sat in that tent for what seemed like hours, eventually he grew bored of waiting and was no longer paying attention to his surroundings nor straining his ear to listen to the battle. At some point he must have dozed off for the next thing he knew, he could see a faint crack of light shining through the tent and realized it must be dawn. Again, he spent the next couple of hours drifting back and forth from sleep to awake until finally he was shaken roughly and pushed to stand by his guard. Outside the tent, he watched dumbly as many men swiftly dismantled the camp. A squire stood with his second guard by the entrance of his tent. The three followed the young squire towards Winterfell; only then did Theon fully come to his senses and realize what this meant.

He giggled uncontrollably all the way to the castle ignoring the gruff orders the shut up. They struck him a couple of times but Theon ignored the pain. He'd suffered far worse before.

Theon knew what was in store for him. No doubt Stannis would execute him but Theon Greyjoy decided he would rather meet his death by fire or sword than be taken back to Ramsay. He had been sick with fear the entire march from the old watchtower to Winterfell knowing defeat meant his recapture. When left behind the night of the assault on Winterfell Theon vowed to run or die in the attempt should the battle end badly. Even if successful he'd most likely die from the frost somewhere in the wolfswood anyway but he welcomed any outcome other than to be taken alive by Ramsay. He didn't dare imagine what Ramsay might do to him for his escape. _Ramsay would flay me from head to toe and more. Much more,_ Theon shuddered. _Better dead than be Reek again._

Theon spent the next days in the dungeons of Winterfell. Only once did his sister come to see him.

"We have all survived again, all of us Ironborn," she told him. "Qarl and Grimtongue were injured, nothing they can't recover from in a few days. The Drowned God does not call for any of us yet it seems."

He merely shrugged not really caring and suddenly Asha seemed to become uncomfortable. Perhaps she realized that last bit had been the wrong thing to say considering…

She shifted her feet and looked at him with renewed purpose, obviously realizing idle chatter was meaningless and preparing instead to say what she had truly intended all along.

"Roose Bolton is dead. Looks like he was killed in a struggle within Winterfell before we ever arrived. The Bastard never stood a chance," Theon visibly flinched at the word. "At least the other lords were wary of his father but with Roose gone, the place took a turn for the worst… became a den of wolves feeding on each other; ripe for the taking."

Roose Bolton was never what held them together, it was the girl pretending to be Lord Eddard Stark's blood. _But her eyes were brown, not gray and she was nothing more than a frightened little lamb dressed in wolf's skin._ Winterfell had been crowded with foes, with men of uncertain loyalty, all of them northmen sworn to House Stark since ancient times, since the Starks were Kings of Winter in a distant past. Theon could see how Roose Bolton might have lost control after she disappeared.

Theon wondered how he died. Who could have dared assault a man such as Roose Bolton? Was it the ones who'd been murdering Freys and Dreadfort men many nights past? _No, the bard and the washerwomen were behind those murders and were surely long dead and flayed after they helped us escape. Was it perhaps Ramsay himself?_ Theon wouldn't be very surprised if it were so.

After the escape Roose must have blamed his son, he must have been furious. Theon shuddered terribly at the thought, he could do without imagining an _angry_ Roose Bolton. _On Roose Bolton's face, rage and joy looked much the same_ , he remembered thinking once. Yet his still silence and the hidden cruelty behind his pale cold eyes were surely more frightening than any other ordinary man's fury. In his anger, had the Lord of the Dreadfort pushed his son too hard this time? Ramsay was completely unlike his calculating father; volatile, openly violent, and not at all cautious. Perhaps this time had been the final straw and the son had finally broken, had finally taken that dagger – throwing all caution to the wind – plunging it deep into his father's chest, sealing his own doom in the process. Roose Bolton never expected his son to be able to rule the north and although Lord Stark's daughter solidified their position, Asha was not entirely wrong either. If Ramsay had indeed finally turned on his father, then it couldn't have come at a worse moment. Without Roose, any possible support from the Ryswells and Dustins was lost and support from the Freys and the Iron Throne was tenuous at best. Ramsay Bolton would lose the last bit of the other houses' grudging support.

"The Bastard is gone too, brother," Asha informed him looking down at him from across the bars.

"No," Theon muttered quickly unable to help himself this time. "Not bastard! Don't call him that!" he said without meaning to, raising his voice and flying towards her, clutching at the bars shakily.

Even in the barely lit dungeon, Theon could still see the aversion and pity in her eyes at the sight of him. He hated that look.

When Asha spoke next her voice was more gentle.

"He can no longer torment you, Theon." She must have seen his disbelief since she chose to elaborate, "I – I saw it myself. He was captured alive and fed to the flames by Stannis, offered to that foreign god of his," she said emotionlessly.

He looked into her eyes taking in her words slowly. "Are you sure? No. He faked his death once… are you certain?" he demanded, falling to sit on the hard stone. He shook his head and cradled it in his hand. "He was Reek, he pretended…" again the words came spilling out unbidden. He tried telling her. How Ramsay tricked him that time, long ago.

But his sister just shook her head sadly.

Theon peered at her through the bars studying her face so intensely she shifted uncomfortably.

"You are lying," he murmured softly through his missing teeth. A statement not a question.

She drew her breath in a sigh and glared at him.

"Fine! But the bastard is as good as dead!" she admitted angrily, whether at him, Ramsay or herself, Theon could not say. "He fled back to the Dreadfort – the coward – but the wolves are already on his tail! He'll most likely be captured along the way and if not, he cannot stay in his castle forever either. The northmen will wait him out and hunt him 'til he's dead. Sooner or later, they shall have his blood."

Theon stared at her, not sure what to say.

"Trust me, Theon. You will never see him again."

_Do I dare hope?_

His eyes glazed over and he slumped back down to lay down fully on the ground, looking up at the dark ceiling of his cell. "Never…" he whispered to himself. He wheezed and cackled slightly, taking in labored breaths so that he himself was unsure whether it was laughter or something else. He remained in that position for a long time. His sister might have said something but he did not hear. It mattered not whether Ramsay was dead, Theon knew why Asha tried to lie to him… Theon was as good as dead himself, that much he knew. He'd be executed soon anyway so she was, in a way, speaking the truth. He would never see Ramsay again. She only sought to give him some peace before the deed was done.

Asha stood there in silence watching him for quite a long time before finally turning to leave.

" _Thank you_ ," he whispered softly at his sister's retreating figure.

Theon wasn't sure whether she heard for she never turned back to look at him, but for half a second, he thought he saw her pause before resuming her way out.

Since Asha's visit, Theon had not paid much attention to anything nor spoken to anyone else. There wasn't much to look at down there nor anyone to talk to save the guards anyway. Many things still troubled his mind but at least Ramsay Bolton would no longer be one of them. He was kept in the dungeons for what might have been days, sleeping through most of it like he hadn't slept in a long time.

The second time someone came to see him was for an entirely different matter.

Outside the snow was coming down lightly for a change but the piles of snow looming all around him revealed it had been snowing harder. He could hear music in the distance, a raucous song, probably coming from the courtyard or the Great Hall.

To his utmost surprise, Theon soon recognized he was being taken to the godswoods.

In the godwoods, steam rose from the hot pools to the cold air above. Theon trudged along quietly through the silvery mist and amongst the tall trees shadowing the ground below with their dense canopy of leaves. Ash, hawthorne, oaks and countless others hung over the packed earth, moss and melted snow he walked on. He kept wondering whether Stannis had listened to his sister. Whether he might die by the old way, the northern way. Perhaps the northerners had demanded the same as Asha. _Why else would I be brought to the godswoods? The old gods will claim me; they know me, they know what I've done._

Theon felt some unexpected relief. Perhaps it was best he answered to them, the northern gods. He had so many memories of this place it was somewhat fitting he should die here as well.

In the heart of the old forest, the ancient weirwood waited for him. The heart tree standing over a pool of black water with red leaves and an eerily knowing red face. A somber crowd stood around the tree waiting for him. _Have all the northern lords come to watch?_ Theon wondered. Most seemed to be present of those who attended the wedding or arrived with Stannis. Lord Ryswell and his sons, both Umbers, old Ondrew Locke, Wull, Flint, Norrey, Liddle, even Lady Dustin and fat Lord Manderly were among them. Glover, Mormont, Tallhart, Cerwyn and Hornwood men were also present even if their lords were not, Theon recognized them by the sigils on their front. He was not surprised to see his sister there as well. With her stood Tristifer Botley and a large man with a huge red beard, Roggon might have been his name but Theon wasn't sure. He thought it strange that Qarl the Maid wasn't with his sister but then he recalled Asha telling him the Maid had been injured.

Theon was brought to a stop before Stannis Baratheon. He spotted that strange sword of his sheathed at his waist, obviously back in his custody.

The place was silent save for the occasional shuffling of feet in the mud and the rustling of wings up above. Theon looked up when he heard cawing and saw Maester Luwin's ravens still perched atop the great weirwood's branches, all looking down at him with shining black eyes.

"Theon Greyjoy," Stannis began. "You are brought before us to answer for your crimes. Turncloak, Kinslayer, those are the charges you face. However, you are also here to answer our questions." Stannis looked back at the heart tree with a frown before turning back to Theon. "The lords and ladies of the north you see gathered here claim no man can lie before a heart tree, they were adamant you were questioned before their gods and that justice be served here."

The leaves rustled and Theon shuddered in response, he felt no wind today.

_The old gods know when men are lying._

"What say you, Theon of House Greyjoy?" Stannis asked imperiously, Theon watched him grinding his teeth as he waited for a reply.

_Theon Greyjoy, that is my name. Son of Balon Greyjoy._

"I will answer, truthfully. Whatever you may ask… to the best of my knowledge."

 _The old gods know when men are lying,_ he repeated in his head. He stared straight at the weeping red face before becoming frightened and quickly looking back at Stannis Baratheon. _They know._

"When you seized Winterfell, the two youngest of Lords Eddard Stark's sons were in the castle, were they not?"

 _Stannis does not beat around the bush._ Theon now had an inkling to what all this was about.

"Yes, Bran and Rickon Stark."

"What happened to them? Tell it true and tell it all."

"They escaped," Theon turned to look at the crowd around him as they muttered amongst themselves. "Bran and Rickon escaped with their wolves, the two Reeds and that – that wildling woman." Theon did not doubt she was the one who made it possible. Probably with help from the old Maester.

"What wildling woman?"

"Before Robb called his banners a wildling was captured in the wolfswood. She later became a servant of House Stark and cared for the two boys. I am sure it was her… _She_ helped them."

"Wasn't one of the Starks a cripple? How did they manage with him?"

"Hodor, the giant lackwit stableboy. He always carried Bran around and he also disappeared with them."

"I see…" Stannis said. "What happened after?"

"We went after them, tracked them down."

Again, the blood-red leaves rustled and Theon looked up with eyes wide. "Theon," they seemed to whisper his name; so, so softly. "Theon." He looked around at the other men gathered, _can they not hear it too?_

"Please…" he muttered. For what he was not sure.

Sudden loud cawing from above had him snap his head up to the red leaves above. Countless black eyes stared down at him. "Truth," the ravens croaked, flapping their inky black wings and squawking noisily. Even the others looked up at the tree in alarm this time. _Finally. Can they hear it too?_

"No – that's not the entire truth. I'm sorry… I'm sorry!" Theon cried.

"Calm yourself, Kinslayer," Stannis barked impatiently.

"I am _not_ a Kinslayer!" he snapped. The flapping of wings and rushing of leaves above had his ears pounding. "We never found them!" he shrieked as tears trickled down his cheek. "We never found them," he repeated more softly, to himself this time.

A murmur ran through the crowd. The fat lord looked down at him triumphantly. He saw them all share a look, all the northmen, and even Stannis. Only Asha and her lackeys looked surprised. _They knew. How?_

"What of the two bodies?" Big Bucket Wull interjected loudly causing Stannis to frown.

"Aye," somebody else called angrily, one of the Ryswells perhaps. "The whole of Westeros knows you displayed two dead boys for all to see!"

Theon stared down at the muddy ground mixed with snow at his feet. The warm tears were a stark contrast to his freezing face. He could not hear the gods anymore. The leaves had gone silent. _Are they waiting for my answer too? Waiting for the truth they already know._

"It was Reek's idea…" Theon murmured. "It was not Bran we killed. Nor Rickon. They were the miller's boys, from – from Acorn Water... I – I had to have two heads. I had to! I – I could not come back to Winterfell empty-handed. It was Reek's idea…" Theon cried, still not daring to look at the tree's face.

"Who is this Reek?" demanded Stannis as everyone else swallowed his words, his confession. Finally, the truth was known. As the Old Gods wanted.

Theon stared at him in panic.

"Answer me!"

"R-Ramsay."

"Ramsay? Speak up turncloak," Stannis ordered impatiently.

"Ramsay disguised himself as Reek. Ser Rodrik sent men to punish Ramsay for his crimes against Lady Hornwood but Ramsay tricked them, disguising himself as his servant Reek." The words spilled forth unbidden. For the first time, Theon found himself telling it all as it had happened. The truth. The gods wanted him to say it. The old gods knew him and had given him his identity back, his real name back. Only then did Reek become Theon again, with enough courage to escape with Jeyne. Now it was time to show some thankfulness for their mercy; Theon had to tell the truth for them. "They killed the real Reek in his place, mistaking him for Ramsay, and brought the disguised Ramsay to the dungeons of Winterfell. W – when I took the castle I released Reek and took him into my service, not knowing his true identity. Nobody knew. It was Ramsay as Reek who suggested bringing back the two miller's boys. He flayed their corpses so they could not be recognized."

"That filthy bastard!" growled one of the northern mountain clansmen.

"Turncloak skinners," spat another.

"The traitorous Boltons knew Ned Stark's sons were alive!" said one of the Umbers loudly in anger.

Theon nodded at that.

"Is there any more you can tell us? Who burned Winterfell?" Stannis commanded.

"W – when Ser Rodrik came to free Winterfell from us, I sent Reek to the Dreadfort after he promised to return with reinforcements. He came back pretending to side with the other northmen before turning on them. Afterward, we opened the gates for Reek who presented us with the bodies of Ser Rodrik Cassel, Leobald Tallhart, and Cley Cerwyn. Only then did Reek finally reveal his true identity."

"So that is how the Bastard _really_ took Winterfell..." Lord Manderly murmured with a nasty frown.

"He – he sacked Winterfell and murdered those inside, northerners and ironmen alike. Like me, those who were not killed were taken back as prisoners to the Dreadfort. Ramsay is the one who razed and set the castle to the torch."

The uproar was incredible. If Asha thought the northmen thirsted for Ramsay's blood before, it became even more so after Theon's confession. Even Lady Dustin seemed livid – for all her claims not to love the Starks. Theon briefly wondered how much of what she had said was even true. A lot of it probably was, but she was much less supportive of the Boltons than she let on.

Stannis cleared his throat once the commotion died down.

"Did Roose Bolton know all of this?"

Theon nodded.

"Say it."

"H-he did, he knew it all. Though I am not sure whether he ordered it himself or whether Ramsay told him the details afterward."

Again, the crowd became riled up.

Theon dared look up at the heart tree's face once more, knowing what was coming next. He answered a few more questions but kept staring at the tree and sometimes at the now silent ravens watching from among the red leaves. The Old Gods were waiting too, they knew what was coming.

"House Bolton's crimes run deep," Stannis said loudly and was answered with angry agreement from the crowd. "The Bastard shall answer for it."

Theon stared at the frightening face, weeping tears as red as blood.

"And you, Theon Greyjoy, must also answer for your crimes," Stannis said to him, loudly so that all might hear. "You may not be guilty of kinslaying but you must still answer for your other crimes. Murder and betrayal. You might not be Theon Kinslayer but you are still Theon Turncloak."

 _I was Ironborn_ , Theon protested feebly in his mind one final time but said nothing. He had given up fighting that name. In his heart, he knew he had betrayed Robb and the Starks. Ned Stark had raised him, Theon had been a brother and friend to his children. Deep in his heart he knew that.

The leaves started rustling again and Theon heard them calling him once more. He heard them calling his name. The Old Gods knew it too. He looked up at them, listening. He could hear Stannis speaking too, almost in the background.

"Theon of House Greyjoy," he proclaimed loudly. The leaves rustled and ravens flapped their wings so hard that even the Northern Lords were watching with apprehension. "I, Stannis of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, do sentence you to die."

The ravens cawed and screamed loudly this time, flapping their wings even more wildly in the air. Stannis gritted his teeth, refusing to look up at the disturbance and fixed his stare on Theon.

"Any last words or request?"

Raucous cawing echoed in the ancient forest. The birds all hopped and flapped atop the heart tree. "Wall," one squawked, "the wall, the wall, the wall," it kept repeating whilst another screamed, "Theon, Theon, Theon."

Theon Greyjoy looked up at them with eyes wide. The lords gathered around him were also watching with something akin to both fear and wonder, they all looked at each other and the tree nervously. His sister and her companions too.

"The wall," the first raven screamed more insistently and then Theon heard yet another unexpected word, another name not his own… "Jon Snow, Snow, Snow," and Theon knew what they were asking of him. He remembered Maester Luwin's advice long ago.

" _Black,_ " Theon croaked, his voice failing him.

He swallowed hard and wetted his cracked lips before falling to his knees and fisting his hands in the mud, clamoring in a louder voice for all to hear, " _I wish to take the black!_ "


	5. Melisandre I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, so sorry for not updating in so long! Aside from RL getting in the way, when I finally decided to focus on THOW this chapter became unexpectedly difficult to write. I knew exactly what I wanted to happen but had trouble actually putting it in writing. Anyway, yet another POV in the North! I need to get certain events out of the way before moving on with the rest of Westeros. Events from the last chapter in Winterfell are happening almost simultaneously with this chapter so I figured it'd be better not to post a completely unrelated POV between them.
> 
> Again, this chapter is not betaed so constructive criticism is welcome :)

_The knight's cloak flapped in the cold air. Of white wool it had been, bordered in cloth-of-silver and patterned with blue stars. Blood and bone were flying everywhere._

_Men poured from the surrounding keeps and towers. Northmen, free folk, queen's men … "Form a line," Jon Snow commanded them. "Keep them back. Everyone, but especially the queen's men." The dead man was Ser Patrek of King's Mountain; his head was largely gone, but his heraldry was as distinctive as his face. Jon did not want to risk Ser Malegorn or Ser Brus or any of the queen's other knights trying to avenge him._

_Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun howled again and gave Ser Patrek's other arm a twist and pull. It tore loose from his shoulder with a spray of bright red blood._ Like a child pulling petals off a daisy _, thought Jon. "Leathers, talk to him, calm him. The Old Tongue, he understands the Old Tongue. Keep back, the rest of you. Put away your steel, we're scaring him." Couldn't they see the giant had been cut? Jon had to put an end to this or more men would die. They had no idea of Wun Wun's strength._ A horn, I need a horn. _He saw the glint of steel, turned toward it. "_ No blades! _" he screamed. "Wick, put that knife…"_

 _…_ away _, he meant to say. When Wick Whittlestick slashed at his throat, the word turned into a grunt. Jon twisted from the knife, just enough so it barely grazed his skin. He cut me. When he put his hand to the side of his neck, blood welled between his fingers. "_ Why? _"_

 _"For the Watch." Wick slashed at him again. This time Jon caught his wrist and bent his arm back until he dropped the dagger. The gangling steward backed away, his hands upraised as if to say,_ Not me, it was not me _. Men were screaming. Jon reached for Longclaw, but his fingers had grown stiff and clumsy. Somehow he could not seem to get the sword free of its scabbard._

_Then Bowen Marsh stood there before him, tears running down his cheeks. "For the Watch." He punched Jon in the belly. When he pulled his hand away, the dagger stayed where he had buried it._

_Jon fell to his knees. He found the dagger's hilt and wrenched it free. In the cold night air the wound was smoking. "Ghost," he whispered. Pain washed over him._  Stick them with the pointy end _. W_ _hen the third dagger took him between the shoulder blades, he gave a grunt and fell face-first into the snow. He never felt the fourth knife. Only the cold..._

― George R.R. Martin, A Dance with Dragons

* * *

**MELISANDRE I**

The red priestess sat alone in her chambers, eyes glittering as she stared intently into the flames. The air in the room was stifling - still, quiet and poignantly solitary. So close she sat to the hearth that her face was bathed entirely by the light. But the heat didn't bother her, it never did.

Melisandre had left the Shieldhall in a flurry of red robes, straight back to consult her fires the moment Jon Snow finished reading his letter and announced his intentions. And yet the flames showed her nothing of worth, not a single sign she could interpret to mean Stannis. The dismayed priestess could not find her king but refused to believe him dead. How could he be dead? The Lord of Light would not allow his champion to perish before his destiny was fulfilled.

She could not allow herself to believe otherwise, she must have faith.

Melisandre closed her eyes and said yet another prayer before opening them once more to look into the hearth fire. Surely R'hllor might grant her at least a glimpse of the king who carried the fate of the world upon his shoulders. A glimpse of Azor Ahai reborn.  _Show me Stannis, my Lord, please,_  she fervently prayed.

The flames crackled softly and visions started dancing in the flames, though not the sort she was after.

Melisandre felt the most uncharacteristic urge to fling the chair across from her in frustration but successfully restrained herself. That sort of behavior and displays of temper were not her way. Yet she could not help feeling some frustration knowing that despite the countless years of practice, study, pain and sacrifice, despite being undoubtedly the most skilled among her order in the art of seeing secrets within the sacred flames, Melisandre now felt useless.

To calm herself and quench the rawness in her throat, the red priestess walked over to the window and poured herself some water from the pewter jug. Downing it all at once, she poured herself another.

Looking out the window whilst swirling the cup in her hands absentmindedly, Melisandre stood silently thinking over her predicament.

 _My faith must never waver_ , _the Lord of Light's champion is not gone and I should not have doubted for even a second,_ Melisandre thought feeling disgusted with herself. Perhaps a sacrifice to the flames might help her see more clearly and, more importantly, protect her king.  _The night is dark and full of terrors, I must not forget._

Even if the light shines upon Azor Ahai one must never forget the Great Other waiting in the darkness, throwing obstacles in his way.

So immersed in her own thoughts was Melisandre that she never heard the commotion outside, not until a loud urgent knock disrupted the silence within her chambers.

She frowned. The boy had explicit orders not to interrupt her tonight.

_Perhaps the queen asks for me?_

Her brows furrowed slightly when she finally realized the outside was much noisier than usual. Hardly a sound ever penetrated her walls yet even from within she could tell something was wrong.

Melisandre called for Devan to come in and when he opened the door noisily, she was slightly unsettled by the panic in his eyes.

"My Lady!" he gasped. "Something terrible has happened!"

"Calm yourself, Devan," she commanded raising an eyebrow at this uncharacteristic behavior.

The boy did as told but it might have been for naught as he remained just as breathless and frightened as he had been upon first opening the door.

"Mu - mutiny, my Lady!"

Melisandre sharply settled her cup onto the table and turned to face him fully.

"It's Jon Snow! The Lord Commander! He–he was attacked! The–the castle is in chaos; men of the Night's Watch are fighting each other! Even the wildings and our own men are unsheathing blades!"

"Lead the way!" she ordered not without some urgency.

She ignored the boy's sputtering protests as he insisted she stay inside her chambers for safety, instead striding out imperiously without even glancing back to check whether her guards – the two hopeless drunkards, Merrel and Morgan - were following her. The boy eventually joined them down the winding stairwell of the King's Tower in silence, resigning himself to her decision. She felt them all behind her but her attention soon became focused on someone else.

One of her men stood waiting at the foot of the stairs out in the cold; obviously, the one who relayed the news to Devan. The shouts muffled by the safety of her quarters and thick tower walls now swelled the air around her as they stepped outside and she could distinctly hear the loud howling of the white beast locked away in the distance. No wonder the boy was frightened.

Melisandre couldn't quite remember the man's name, but immediately recognized him as the craven Stannis left behind in her service. The man should have been hung but the king had explained to her that he came from a noble family who supported Stannis' claim from the very beginning. Devan himself knew no more details, only that the young Lord Commander was attacked by his own men so her guards explained the rest, or what little they knew as they followed her quick pace through the snow-covered yard.

"Apparently, Ser Patrek thought to  _steal_  the wildling princess the wildling way and was mauled over by that – that creature. The giant is no good, we all thought so from the first, but Patrek was a fool no doubt!"

"Foolish indeed," Melisandre agreed. "May the Lord of Light have mercy on his unfortunate soul."

"The mutinous faction took advantage of the chaos to stab their Lord Commander in the back and are fighting against those loyal to the boy as we speak!"

"What of our men?"

The man looked at her warily. "Well, uh… Everyone seems much too eager to join the fray. The black brothers, wildlings and queen's men… Which is why I rushed to inform you, my Lady."

 _That and your cowardice_ , Melisandre suspected the man was not too keen to join the fighting himself.

Melisandre quickly understood the young Lord Commander signed his death sentence the moment he announced his intentions to ride south. Allowing the free folk through the Wall made him wildly unpopular with his own brothers but his decision tonight became the last drop needed to make the cup run over.

 _I warned Jon Snow. I warned him._ Melisandre felt aggravated that it had come to this. Jon Snow had become a recurring vision in the flames.

_He is important; that much I know, that much I am sure._

The sound of steel and shouts grew louder with every step and soon Melisandre spotted men fighting and running in every direction but she ignored them all and kept her pace with grim determination.

_And I must save him if possible._

Once Melisandre and her small retinue came within sight of Hardin's Tower where the wildling women and the giant had been staying since bending the knee, she took a moment to peruse the chaos. Her eyes searching quickly for the injured Lord Commander who starred in every single one of her flame viewings. Indeed, men from the Night's Watch were fighting each other, half the wildlings struggled to protect the roaring giant from queen's men as the other half fought the mutinous faction. She was unsurprised to spot Ser Brus leading the charge against the giant. She stepped back just in time as a bloodied knight was flung towards them by the giant, the man struggled to stand back up but Melisandre knew those injuries would prevent him from rejoining the battle. she looked away from the giant, wildlings and queen's men to continue her search. The noise was deafening - the shouting and clanging of steel - but Melisandre ignored the discomfort and the obvious danger of remaining here, her safety was something for her guards to concern themselves with anyway.

Trepidation and sense of urgency overcame her other emotions when she finally spotted the obviously unconscious Jon Snow being slowly but surely carried away from the fighting. A dark trail, of what Melisandre knew must be blood, stained the snow in their wake. She immediately took after them, skimming the edges of the yard and quickening her step as her guards shoved people out of the way.

Well into a deserted path between buildings past Hardin's Tower, Melisandre caught up to the four figures carrying the unmoving body of the Lord Commander between them. One she knew to be an old ranger, Rory, the second she also recognized but did not know by name – big, blond and buck-toothed. The final two she also knew by name: Val, the so-called wildling princess, and Satin, the attractive dark-haired youth who'd once worked at a brothel – or so she heard – but had been appointed steward by Jon Snow himself despite protests.

The four stopped in their tracks when they saw Melisandre, clad in red and glowing in contrast to the black walls on either side of them and the white snow below. Satin looked almost hopeful when he saw her bend down to gauge Jon's condition but the young woman seemed more reluctant to accept her help judging by how her eyes narrowed in suspicion.  _No matter_ , Melisandre ignored the girl. With no Maester currently in service to Castle Black, the red priestess was the best chance they had in saving their young Lord Commander – the steward obviously understood this too.

The numerous wounds were hidden by his black clothes but even without touching them Melisandre could tell his clothes were soaked in blood nonetheless. She could practically smell the stench of blood and the bright red stain marring the hands of Jon's rescuers was obviously not their own. Her breath hitched when she put a finger to the boy's neck, seeking to find life still in him. The color had not yet completely faded from him but it would soon, just as almost all traces of warmth had. The red priestess looked at the four pair of eyes watching her expectantly and the moment her own connected with each of theirs she saw the truth sink in.

Jon Snow, 998th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch was dead.

The young steward looked away and shut his dark eyes in grief, Val seemed to struggle with accepting the truth at first but soon her fierce blue eyes shone brightly with unshed tears, the other two hung their heads dejectedly in sorrow and defeat. Nobody spoke and a short moment of silence passed between them, undisturbed by the shouting in the yard behind them.

Anger and grief marred the golden-haired wildling woman's face as she looked at Jon Snow's lifeless head cradled in her bloodied hands. She was the first to speak. "I owe this man much and more, Jon Snow understood the  _true_  danger beyond-the-wall and reached out to us in compassion. How can those cravens not see that we are not their true enemy?"

Melisandre looked down upon the young woman somberly, agreeing with her completely though she remained quiet.

"Take him away; hide his body somewhere safe," Melisandre finally told them.

The three brothers in black nodded grimly but determined, lifting the body back up as Val protected his head. Melisandre watched them leave, carefully carrying the weight between them before heading in the opposite direction with renewed purpose. Once she was back within plain sight of the chaotic courtyard, the red priestess was pleased to see Ser Axell Florent had only just arrived to survey the situation and called him to her quickly before he decided the next course of action on his own. The stout, homely man rushed to her immediately upon seeing her, grim-faced and clad in his usual russet and fox fur.

"My Lady," he gasped, clearly out of breath from having run over from the King's Tower where they had all taken residence. "You must not be out here! Far too danger –"

"Ser Axell," Melisandre acknowledged him. "Have our men pull back at once!"

"B – but, my Lady, those savages – they killed one of our own!"

"Ser Patrek is a victim of his own stupidity," Melisandre corrected sharply. "These people," she said referring to the wildlings, "are now King Stannis' subjects and have embraced R'hllor. Our king approved of Jon Snow's decisions here. If you must act, Ser Axell, then help seize the traitors who attacked their Lord Commander, disregarding our king's will by extension."

Ser Axell's eyes widened but he curtsied at her nonetheless as she knew he would. "As you say, my Lady! I shall do so at once! But please, I beseech you, go back to the safety of the King's Tower! I shall inform you the moment matters are settled out here." When Melisandre finally nodded after staring him down intensely, the man rose with fervent purpose and excused himself, calling out and shouting orders on the way.

The red priestess' eyes flitted left and right, having a final look at what had become of Castle Black before graciously spinning around and swiftly walking back towards the large round tower where the King's household resided in its many rooms, including Melisandre, the queen, and the young princess.

"Come on!" She called to her guards, masking her impatience.  _I must make haste and inform the queen._

Queen Selyse would hear of Melisandre's decisions here from the priestess herself, wouldn't do for the other woman to act rashly and unknowingly give out different orders. Not that it mattered anyway. After all, the  _Queen's Men_  were ardently faithful to the Lord of Light and always consulted the priestess first. Still, it was important for the two women to convene, the queen must be reassured that the letter read earlier was false. Yet another of the dark one's lies. Melisandre knew she'd surely spend the night gazing into the flames for her heart was heavy with worry, as if a stone had settled atop her chest; the loss of Jon Snow was a terrible blow.  _The sacred flames must be consulted_.

But first, there was far too much to be done. Melisandre now fully understood the importance of the Night's Watch and even the wildlings; the importance of gathering all the forces available for the upcoming struggle. She would see to it that things were in order here before the King returned.

XXX

Two nights since the mutiny at Castle Black found Melisandre once again facing the hearth fire, as she had been for the better part of the day. Something utterly remarkable had taken place in the dreary dark castle. Although the Night's Watch itself had been split in two, a tentative alliance had been made between the loyal faction of the ancient brotherhood and the free folk they had been fighting against for their entire lives. Melisandre understood where this new found acceptance came from for the two came together in the face of the tragedy that had befallen Jon Snow.

However, a small group of black brothers - mostly stewards and builders - had become the target of their animosity instead. The queen's men, in turn, were the odd faction, unwelcome by all, as they had been since their arrival, though none said it outright.

Thankfully open hostilities between the two main groups had died down but the air hanging above Castle Black remained palpably tense. The black brothers were on edge, distrustful of each other and leaderless. Half the senior members of Castle Black had become traitors awaiting execution in their cells while the other half had been recently sent ranging beyond the Wall and only the Lord of Light knew when and if they might return. It would be some time before higher ranking members of the ancient brotherhood arrived from Eastwatch or the Shadow Tower. Ravens had been sent of course, but none were expected to return so soon. Melisandre had tried talking the young steward into handing over the mutinous prisoners to the fire but Satin and the rest of his brothers stubbornly refused, making it clear that any form of interference from anyone not sworn to the Night's Watch was unwelcome.

Looking back into the glowing flames, Melisandre studied the fire with a mixture of expectation and uncertainty. The golden glow flickered over her beautiful pale face, casting sharp shadows upon her features. She closed her eyes and said a prayer before opening them once again to face the hearth.

The fire sparked sharply but the red priestess did not even flinch, instead gently brushing away a stray bit of glowing red ash threatening to settle on her crimson robes. Her attention was elsewhere.

A familiar youthful long face flickered in the fire, only cold and pale as death itself.  _Jon Snow still plagues my visions, even in death._  The Lord of Light clearly would not allow her to forget her failure in not making Jon Snow understand her warnings. Every single day since his murder she had been reminded of the tragedy in her flames. When his face faded Melisandre found herself looking instead at a small figure surrounded by colorful dancers - red, yellow and orange - swirling around in a great dark hall. The fire sparked and the red priestess saw a faceless girl. She was in grave danger, running around erratically in fear until she unexpectedly changed her course and instead ran back, this time with purpose. The flames changed yet again and Melisandre shivered as a lonely white wolf howled in the dark before leading her down where it grew darker and darker with each step. She peered into this cold darkness made of stone with solemn stone faces watching a peculiar egg. Melisandre waited breathlessly. The egg began to crack – slowly at first – until she nearly cried out when the flames flared dangerously as it hatched. The red priestess had been unable to see the enormous creature properly but she knew what it was without the shadow of a doubt. She felt rejuvenated with excitement until, just as suddenly, the flames dimmed showing her something new: an army of skulls advancing upon a bridge in the cold. Skulls and more skulls - countless dead followed by the cold and a terrible all-consuming darkness. Horror gripped her heart and she understood the urgency and gravity of this final vision. In fear she tore her eyes away from the flames, hands shaking as she gripped her chair for support as she stood up.

The red priestess strode shakily across the room over to the window, opening it slightly to gaze out into the night and allow some fresh air into the room.

 _Enemies in the woods, enemies in the water... enemies to the East where the Wall meets the sea and now enemies to the West were the Wall meets the bridge_.

The white wolf was howling again.

 _Perhaps, I should have the men release the poor beast_ , she mused distractedly. It was saddening to know such a magnificent animal was still locked up in Jon Snow's modest quarters in the armory.

The wolf had gone mad that terrible night of its master's murder; howling wildly, growling and desperately trying to break free from his confinement. She had warned the young Lord Commander to keep Ghost close and Melisandre did not doubt the wolf knew  _exactly_  what had happened. But it had eventually grown tired and calmed down since it's howling becoming less frequent.

Melisandre looked back at the radiant flames behind her, knowing she had to keep searching. Hope for a sign, more so now than ever. If that final vision was true then the Wall, the Night's Watch and everyone else was in even greater danger. The dreaded time was drawing near, the time when Azor Ahai would be once again called upon to save them. She felt the fresh air coming in through the open window was not enough to keep the suffocating feeling in her heart at bay so she closed the window and crossed her chambers to the door. Tomorrow she would continue to push for a sacrifice, Satin and the others had to give in eventually. A sacrifice was desperately needed. For now, however, she needed to clear her head before returning to the fire.

A heavy mist had descended upon the grounds, clinging to the air around her so that it was difficult to see far ahead. All was deceptively peaceful this late in the night and although she welcomed the stillness and silence, Melisandre knew well of the terrors waiting in the night. A hush had fallen over Castle Black, a hush that whispered of secrecy and danger, however, Melisandre did not fear the shadows of the dark towering halls and continued walking unperturbed over the newly fallen snow.

The red priestess was not shocked to eventually find herself in front of the now silent armory. Deep down a sense of meaning settled in her stomach and Melisandre knew she was exactly where she was meant to be. She couldn't say when the decision had been made nor if she had even thought of it consciously but what had been an aimless stroll through the night had taken an unexpected turn.

XXX

The third day since the mutiny brought about the first of many surprises that would follow the tragic death of Jon Snow to the grim and grieving inhabitants of Castle Black.

The arrival of the remaining five Rangers the young Lord Commander had sent out before his death caused quite a stir among them all. Dywen, Kedge Whiteye, Alliser Thorne and two others came back shivering and pale as death itself. All with broken, hollow looks.

Alliser Thorne was the most notably shaken, for the others were veteran Rangers and therefore no strangers to the dangers of the freezing lands beyond the wall while Ser Alliser had grown accustomed to the safety of remaining south of the Wall as master-at-arms. His eyes had changed, now wild and wide open almost as if his body had not yet realized he was back on the safe side of the Wall. The man had left Castle Black standing proud and angry, promising retribution upon the one who sent him away. Instead, a faded and frightened creature came back in his place; hollow, unusually quiet and scarred by what he'd seen on his outing Beyond-the-Wall with the Rangers. One thing is hearing and believing his brothers' tales but it is another thing entirely witnessing them for yourself.

Melisandre was surprised to find herself invited into the Shieldhall as the Night's Watch gathered to hear news in detail from their returned Rangers. What they had to say, however, was dire indeed as they confirmed the foreboding vision she was shown by R'hllor the night before.

She stood at the back watching them all closely with the giant white wolf at her side. He had been surprisingly well behaved, staying by her side since she had freed him the night before though everyone else had become very adept at avoiding coming near the wolf. Melisandre rather enjoyed the way men parted quickly whenever she passed through with the direwolf at her side. Now, Ghost sat quietly looking fixedly at the man talking, almost as if he were actually listening to the meeting and studying the participants shrewdly.

In addition to Melisandre and the queen's men, she noticed the Northerners had also been invited - Old Flint and the Norrey, all of them clad in their usual furs and studded leather. Their faces covered by their long beards and terrible scars were as fearsome as ever.

All of them had stubbornly refused to leave their old gods of the north.

"I saw them,  _we_  saw them!" Dywen gestured behind him to the two men who'd been part of his group when he left Castle Black.

The other two remained quiet but in their eyes, Melisandre saw the truth of Dywen's words.

"Only the gods know how we managed to get away unseen but the dead are coming!" Dywen stubbornly told them. "Hundreds of 'em! A - and with the dead, we saw  _them._ "

Nobody had to ask who he meant.

"Wh - where exactly were they headed?"

"Down the Milkwater."

"I-if you follow the Milkwater south they'll eventually arrive at…" Satin trailed off, the sudden realization to horrifying to say aloud.

"You mean Westwatch?" asked Rory gruffly. "The Bridge of Skulls!? The Weeper is gathering a fine number of the remaining wildings that way."

"Who cares what happens to a bunch of wildlings?" a black brother shouted from the other side of the hall amidst roars of protests.

"Well, you should! We all should, this is exactly what Lord Commander Snow was afraid of, exactly why he wanted to send ships to Cotter Pyke so they could take the wildlings away from Hardhome."

"What do you mean, Rory?"

"Seven buggering hells, you stupid twit," exploded Ulmer. The man was an old ranger, apparently the last surviving member of the Kingswood Brotherhood - an infamous band of outlaws, or so Melisandre was told. After their defeat, Ulmer was captured alive and sent to the Wall where he has remained ever since. "Don't you see? Imagine thousands of dead wildlings rising right back up? You tell me what might happen if they join this already large army of wights marching towards Westwatch and the Shadow Tower as we speak!" the old man spat angrily.

The hall fell silent.

"It can't be true… I mean, what are we supposed to do in a situation such as this?" somebody finally spoke up fearfully. Melisandre looked at the man in fury. How long would some of these men continue to resist the truth?

"Are you calling us liars?" demanded one of the Rangers.

"They are still well away from the Bridge of Skulls and if they do cross the Milkwater, traveling through the Frostfangs is no small feat either so that will slow them down," Alliser Thorne had finally stood up to speak. His voice was oddly gruff, like that of a man not used to speaking. "We can't be sure where they'll strike even if they do come close to the Wall."

"Aye, no Other has been seen close to the Wall in thousands of years."

"But that doesn't mean they won't come now!" argued Dywen.

Melisandre chose that moment to speak up and disclose what she had seen in the flames. One might have heard a pin drop to the floor in the silence that followed.

"I vote in favor of sending more men to Westwatch-by-the-Bridge and the Shadow Tower… and all the other castle's for that matter, as many as we can," Ser Alliser was the first to speak. "If possible send some help to Cotter Pyke as well…" he muttered the last bit grudgingly, fully aware he was agreeing to carry on with Jon Snow's plan.

Afterwards, the rest of the meeting became a series of arguments and angry voices rising above each other to decide the fate of their prisoners, the fate of the traitors. In the end, all agreed to reconvene and pass the final sentence the next day. However, it was clear to Melisandre that the decision was all but made and that, at the very least, the leaders of the mutiny would be executed.

Outside, Melisandre barely noticed the biting cold wind nor the crunching of snow beneath her feet as she quietly approached Ser Alliser Thorne.

"Much has changed since you've been gone, Ser."

"Indeed, and not for the better."

"I thought you and Jon Snow despised each other."

"That we did... though after what I've seen… such rivalries hardly seem important. Not anymore… The only thing I am sure of is that I certainly do not wish to follow after Snow, at least not yet. Those of us still living must keep to our vows, must keep that - that evil out." The man shuddered involuntarily, whether from the cold or the memory of the servants of the Great Other she was not sure; and he did so ever so lightly she almost missed it.

"I have an urgent matter to discuss with you."

The man stopped in his tracks, looking at her guardedly. The darkness shadowed half his face.

"Some of your brothers will be sentenced to death tomorrow," she stated.

"That is the punishment for traitors."

Melisandre's eyes gleamed red with opportunity.

"On behalf of King Stannis I have but a single request. The young steward has already refused but one can hardly blame the young man, he lacks the understanding… I'm sure a man like you knows not to take lightly the request of a king, the request of your guests. We are all allies in these terrible dark times after all, are we not?"

"And what is the King's request?" he asked carefully.

When he heard her answer the man stiffened but she did not hold back. The red priestess kept prodding and silkily explaining the benefits of agreeing.

Finally, he turned away with a deeply troubled expression on his face, promising only to speak with the remaining members of the ancient brotherhood he belonged to on the morrow.

Melisandre watched him leave before turning around with a small satisfied smile.

XXX

On the fifth morning since the mutiny, the red priestess left the round tower she had been calling home with grim determination. Not sparing even a momentary glance at the large oak doors studded with iron, nor her guards, nor young Devan Seaworth. Ghost was nowhere to be seen for she had thought it best to momentarily lock him up within the armory given the occasion. She could not afford to have the direwolf acting up during the ceremony. Too much as at stake.

Now, Melisandre found herself standing before a large crowd in the middle of the training grounds watching the large four cages made from saplings and supple branches from the haunted forest burn above the deep fire pit.

In sharp contrast to the faint dreary sunrise rising behind the cloud-covered sky, the entire courtyard was alight with a red and yellowish glow, attesting to the fierceness of the flames. Sacrificial fires were always the strongest.

The incoherent screams no longer troubled her. The Lord of Light demanded sacrifices to be made and these men would have been executed anyway. The men of the Night's Watch had been very reluctant to allow her to take their former brothers to the flames so, when after much deliberation they grudgingly agreed to burn the traitors, she'd given them little chance to change their minds. In truth traitor's blood was of little value compared to King's blood but any life given to the flames would not go unnoticed by R'hllor.

She watched the bars crumble and more charred branches tumble down as the flames licked upwards.

"The Lord of Light made the sun and moon and stars to light our way, and gave us fire to keep the night at bay," Melisandre recited the familiar words to the mixed crowd of black brothers, queen's men, northerners, and wildlings. "None can withstand his flames."

" _None can withstand his flames,_ " the queen's men echoed.

"Lord of Light protect us! For the Night is dark and full of terrors! Cleanse the soul of these poor men! These traitors to the light. Protects us from those who would hurt and betray us, protect us from those acting against your will, protect us from those twisted by the darkness. Accept our prayers, Lord. Accept these tokens of our faith and lead us from the darkness!"

Her robes of deep scarlet swirled about her as she turned to the crowd whilst the fire crackled in the pit below. The heat from the fire pit might have been unbearable for anyone else but Melisandre relished the feeling.

"And to you all, I say, embrace the light for only the light can protect us now! The danger is real and the darkness is coming. These men acted in fear, these men were faithless. Man or woman, young or old, lord or peasant, remember that our choices are the same. We choose light or we choose darkness. We must choose to stay true and find the courage to fight for soon comes the cold, and the night that never ends."

"Now look at our fallen, victims of the coming night, and remember they will not be the last! Remember the night is dark and full of terrors!"

" _The night is dark and full of terrors_ ," the queen's men chanted in agreement.

The sun had fully risen by now. They had survived yet another night and now it was time for her to bestow funeral rites upon those who had not. Melisandre walked away from the pit and approached the funeral pyres, she stopped by the first and largest of them all where young Satin was standing with a torch ready, handsome as always but with a sad grim look marring his face.

She watched the senior ranger, wrinkled and leathery Dywen, step up to recite a eulogy for the lost men gruffly. The man had rallied the rangers under Jon when troubles first started with Bowen Marsh and the stewards and builders who sided with him.

"He was a good man… a good man faced with hard times. Jon Snow came to us the bastard of Winterfell and rose at the mere age of fifteen to 998th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Whatever some might think, he had the right idea of what had to be done. They say the Starks have ice in their veins, perhaps it may be so. Older, more experienced men might have crumbled under the weight of such decisions. Older and more experienced men have already crumbled," he said, uneasily glancing back briefly at the burning cages. "But be that as it may, Jon Snow is now gone from this world. And now his watch is ended."

 _And now his watch is ended,_ the words echoed in her mind.  _The Lord of Light deemed him useful and so the darkness struck its first blow_ , she thought bitterly.

Melisandre stepped up to the pyre and looked down at Jon's marble white face, his expression so soft he might have been sleeping. She had never seen the young Lord Commander thus, his features so unguarded and relaxed. She'd only just learned Satin and the others had hidden his body in the ice cells, an odd but clever choice nonetheless. She studied his features and remembered how he'd been while still alive; dark-haired, pale white skin and dark grey eyes. He might have been a beautiful boy had he not been frowning and looking so glum all the time. He looked younger now than he had before.  _No, that is incorrect._   _He looks his age now when before he looked older,_ _his burden aged him beyond his years._  The priestess wished there was more she could have done for him, wished dearly the young man lying in the funeral pyre were still with them.

Sighing wearily, Melisandre began reciting prayers for the death rites all red priests were required to learn and be able to perform:  _the last kiss._

She breathed in, long and deep, and in doing so the red priestess filled her mouth with fire and felt the invigorating warmth and force of life within her.  _Life is warmth, and warmth is fire, and fire is God's and God's alone._  That was something every single priest belonging to her order believed in.

She leaned down, closing her eyes and softly pressing her own warm red lips to icy pale blueish ones, and breathed the flames into him. Down his throat, down to his lungs, heart, and soul.

In that moment, her eyes flew open when something the red priestess was utterly unprepared for happened. As the warm fire went into Jon Snow, the still body took a sudden deep choking breath in response - like the first desperate breath of a man who'd managed to rise up to the surface from drowning. Melisandre felt a blazing warmth consume and spread across his cold body as it came alive before her very eyes. He breathed again, taking all the warmth and the fire from her, and she felt an unmistakable living beat run through from him to her.

She pulled back from the body with such force she tripped backward, eyes wide in alarm and amazement.

She watched with growing disbelief and wonder as the body visibly lost it's deathly paleness and recovered the color of the living. She watched with glowing red eyes as Jon Snow coughed and choked, taking in impossible breaths of air.

The assortment of black brothers and free folk standing closest to the pyre shouted in alarm and equal surprise as others pushed forward, trying to take a closer look. Satin, with his mouth opened wide in astonishment, had dropped his flaming torch and tripped all the way down to the ground whilst Melisandre had thankfully avoided the same fate, regaining her footing just in time. She was not looking at the others, however. No, the red priestess took a cautious step closer.

"It can't be," she said in a whispered croak.

Much louder she cried out with wonder, glee and a tinge of fear what she knew to be true. An impossible but unmistakable truth.

"He-he's alive! Blessed be the Lord of Light, the God of Flame and Shadow,  _he's alive!_ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter we'll move on to characters we haven't seen yet. Think some of you might like the next POV ;)


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